THE    GENTLEST  ART 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


iHE  GENTLEST  ART 

A  Choice  of  Letters  by 
Entertaining  Hands 


EDITED    BY 

E.  V.   LUCAS 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  WANDERER  IN   HOLLAND,11 

"A  WANDERER  IN  LONDON," 

ETC.,  ETC. 


gorfe 
THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THE  M  ACM  ILL  AN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1907.    Reprinted 
July,  1908 ;  July,  1909  ;  September,  1910  ;  April,  19x3. 


J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Ce. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


As  keys  do  open  chests, 
So  letters  open  brests. 

James  Howell 

I  quite  agree  with  you  as  to  the  horrors  of  correspondence. 
Correspondences  are  like  small-clothes  before  the  invention 
of  suspenders :  it  is  impossible  to  keep  them  up. 

Sydney  Smith 

Pray  do  write  to  me :  a  few  lines  soon  are  better  than  a 
three-decker  a  month  hence.  Edward  Fitz  Gerald 


n 


30392 


THE   EDITOR   EXPLAINS 

TAEAR  MADAM  (OR  SIR),  — This  collection  does  not 
•L'  attempt  to  be  representative ;  it  does  not  compete, 
for  example,  with  Mr.  Mumby's  two  volumes.  My  aim 
was  merely  to  bring  together  enough  good  letters  to  fill 
the  book,  and  then  to  stop  (although,  as  it  happened, 
when  the  time  came  I  rejected  almost  as  many  as  I  used). 
This  places  me  in  a  strong  position  when  (as  you  must 
frequently  do)  you  throw  up  your  hands  and  exclaim, 
"Why  has  he  left  out  This  — and  That?"  Sometimes 
the  fault  will  lie  with  the  law  of  copyright ;  but  probably 
quite  as  often  it  will  be  either  because  I  had  not  read  the 
letters  by  This  and  That,  or  because  I  did  not  care  enough 
for  them.  Perhaps  one  day  I  will  try  again. 
Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 

E.  V.  LUCAS 

PS.  —  The  sources  of  all  the  letters  which  are  copy- 
right are  detailed  at  the  end :  but  here  I  should  like  again 
to  thank  those  owners  of  copyright  who  have  so  kindly 
allowed  me  to  pick  where  I  would. 


vii 


\ 


CONTENTS 

I.     CHILDREN   AND    GRANDFATHERS 

PAGE 

MARJORIE  FLEMING  WRITES  HER  FIRST  LETTER        .  .        i 

THE  REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH  THREATENS  HIS  LITTLE  GRAND- 
DAUGHTER WITH  AWFUL  PENALTIES          .  .  .2 
LORD  JEFFREY  OF  THE  Edinburgh  Review  BECOMES  VERY 

HUMAN        .......  2 

JOHN  KEATS  is  PLEASED  TO  BE  AN  UNCLE  .  .  .4 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS  CONGRATULATES  W.  P.  FRITH,  R.A.,  ON 

ARRIVING  AT  THE  STATUS  OF  A  GRANDFATHER  .  .  8 

A  MOTHER  INFORMS  THE  CONTROLLER  OF  THE  LONDON 

"GUILD  OF  PLAY"  OF  THE  GOOD  IT  HAS  DONE  TO  SARAH 

ANN          .  .  .  .  .  .  .10 

THOMAS  HAYLEY  (AGED  TWELVE)  POINTS  OUT  DEFECTS  IN 

COWPER'S  TRANSLATION  OF  Homer  .  .  .10 

THE  GUILTY  POET  REPLIES  .  .  .  .  .II 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  (AGED  FOURTEEN)  KEEPS 

MRS.  HANNAH  MORE  (AGED  SEVENTY)  INFORMED  OF 

WHAT  IS  GOING  ON  .  .  .  .  -13 

HANNAH  MORE  INFORMS  ZACHARY  MACAULAY,  ESQ.,  OF  THE 

MENTAL  PROGRESS  OF  HIS  SON  .  .  .  15 

LEWIS  CARROLL  WRITES  TO  THREE  OF  HIS  LITTLE  GIRL 

FRIENDS      .  .  .  .  .  .  17 

CHARLES  LAMB  ENTERTAINS  A  POET'S  SON    .  .  .20 

SHELLEY  VISITS  ALLEGRA  IN  THE  CONVENT  .  .  .22 

II.     THE   NEWS   BEARERS 

CHARLES  DICKENS  EMPLOYS  THE  PEN  OF  BOSWELL  .  25 

THE  DEAN  TELLS  STELLA  ALL  .  .  .  .26 

ix 


PAGE 

CHARLES  DICKENS  NARRATES  A  DREAM         .  .  .28 

THACKERAY  DESCRIBES  HIS  PARISIAN  ADVENTURES  .  .      33 

HORACE  WALPOLE  DESCRIBES  MADAME  DU  DEFFAND          .      35 
CHARLES  LAMB  SENDS  NEWS  TO  CHINA        .  .  -37 

CHARLES  DICKENS  CHRONICLES  THE  PROCEEDINGS  OF  FOUR 

ETON  BOYS  .  .  .  .  .  .42 

THE   REV.    SYDNEY   SMITH   TELLS   MRS.    GROTE   EVERY- 
THING      .  .  .  .  .  .  .46 

HORACE  WALPOLE  KEEPS  GEORGE  MONTAGU  INFORMED      .      47 
EDWARD  FITZGERALD  REPORTS  PROGRESS     .  .  -5° 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  SETS  DOWN  A  DAY'S  WORK  AT 

APIA         .  .  .  .  .  .  52 

THOMAS  CARLYLE  MEETS  QUEEN  VICTORIA  .  -55 

MARY  GUILHERMIN,  1766,  INSTRUCTS  CHILDREN  IN  THE  ART 

OF  LETTER- WRITING  .  .  .  .  $8 

III.     THE   FAMILIAR   MANNER 

Miss  AUSTEN  TELLS  ALL  THE  NEWS,  IN  THREE  LETTERS      .      59 
DAME  DOROTHY  BROWNE  (SiR  THOMAS  BROWNE'S  LADY) 
GIVES  POSTSCRIPT  NEWS  OF  THE  HEALTH  AND  WELL-BEING 
OF  MASTER  TOMMY  BROWNE,  HER  GRANDSON  .  .      73 

IV.     THE   GRAND   STYLE 

THE  SWAN  OF  LICHFIELD  GREETS  THE  LADIES  OF  LLANGOL- 

LEN  .  .  .  .  .  .      75 

THE  SWAN  OF  LICHFIELD  WORD-PAINTS        .  .  -78 

THE  SWAN  OF  LICHFIELD  CONTEMPLATES  THE  OCEAN          .      81 

V.  WITH  A   SPICE 

JANE  WELSH  CARLYLE  TELLS  ALL  THE  NEWS,  IN  SEVEN 

LETTERS     .  .  .  .  .  -85 

VI.  "RICH   EYES" 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD  REJOICES  IN  FREDERICK  TENNYSON'S 

GREAT  CRICKET  MATCH      .  .  .  .  .Ill 

X 


PAGE 

THE  REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH  DESCRIBES  HIS  ADVENTURES  TO 

HIS  DAUGHTER     .  .  .  .  .  .112 

CHARLES  DICKENS  MEETS  A  SMALL  IRISH  BOY          .  -113 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS  EXTOLS  CORNWALL  TO  MR.  W.  P.  FRITH, 

R.A.          .  .  .  .  .  .  .117 

THE  LAMBS  AT  THE  LAKES    .  .  .  .  .119 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  INSTRUCTS  HIS  UNCLE  CONTARINE  IN 

DUTCH  MANNERS  .  .  .  .  .123 

JOHN  KEATS  DESCRIBES  WINCHESTER         .  .  .127 

JOHN  KEATS  AND  CHARLES  BROWN  DISCOVER  SCOTLAND      .     130 
EDWARD  FITZGERALD  ON  BEDFORDSHIRE  AND  THE  IRISH        138 
LORD  BYRON  INFORMS  MR.  HODGSON  OF  HIS  DAILY  ROU- 
TINE         .......     140 

SHELLEY  IN  THE  COLISEUM    .  .  .  .  .142 

THOMAS  GRAY  EXTOLS  KENT  .  .  .  .144 

THE  LAMBS  AT  CAMBRIDGE   .  .  .  .  .146 

THE  REV.  T.  E.  BROWN  DESCRIBES  THE  JUNGFRAU  .     152 


VII.     THE   LITTLE   FRIENDS 

WILLIAM  COWPER  LOSES  Puss           .            .            .  .155 

GILBERT  WHITE  BECOMES  TIMOTHY'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHER  .     157 
CHARLES  DICKENS  TELLS  CAPTAIN  BASIL  HOOD  OF  THE 

DEATH  OF  HIS  RAVEN         .                 .                 .                 .  .      l6l 

THE  SWAN  OF  LICHFIELD  LOSES  SAPPHO      .            .  .162 

CHARLES  LAMB  AND  HIS  DOG            .            .            .  .164 

CHARLES  DICKENS  DESCRIBES  HIS  WELCOME  HOME  .  166 


VIII.    URBANITY  AND   NONSENSE 

HORACE  WALPOLE  AFFECTS  TO  REPRIMAND  LADY  HOWE     .     169 
CHARLES  DICKENS  IMPLORES  THE  LOAN  OF  A  GREAT  TRAGE- 
DIAN'S FANCY  VEST  .  .  .  .  .170 

CHARLES  LAMB  BRINGS  HIMSELF  TO  WRITE  TO  AUSTRALIA       171 

THE  DEAN  EXTEMPORISES  TO  DR.  SHERIDAN  .  .173 

WILLIAM  COWPER  LOOKS  BACKWARD  .  .  .175 

xi 


PAGE 

CHARLES  LAMB  INVENTS  FOR  MANNING  .  .  .178 

THE  DEAN  JESTS  WITH  Miss  HOADLEY  .  .  .181 

WILLIAM  COWPER  DROPS  INTO  VERSE  .  .  .183 

CHARLES  LAMB  CRIES  OUT  AGAINST  TARTARY  .  .185 

W.  M.  THACKERAY  THANKS  A  FRIEND  FOR  TWO  GEESE  .  188 
ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  OFFERS  TO  EXCHANGE  BODIES 

WITH  COSMO  MONKHOUSE  .  .  .  .189 

AN  ABLE-BODIED  SEAMAN  ASKS  HIS  BROTHER  TO  BE  SURE 

TO  GET  HIM  A  CREATURE  COMFORT  .  .  .  IQI 

J-ETTER  FROM  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN  TO  HIS  COMPANION 

RECOVERED  FROM  A  FIT  OF  SICKNESS  .  .  .  IQ2 

ANSWER  TO  THE  PRECEDING  LETTER  .  .  .192 

IX.     FIRST   PERSON   SINGULAR 

THOMAS  CARLYLE  TELLS  ALL  THE  NEWS,  IN  THREE  LETTERS  193 
BYRON  is  INTERESTED  IN  BYRON,  IN  TWO  LETTERS  .  -213 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  UTTERS  A  MANIFESTO  .  .  .217 

EPISTOLARY  Sententia.     (To  fill  a  blank  space.)       .  .221 

X.     LITERATURE   AND    ART 

HAYDON,  KEATS,  AND  SHAKESPEARE  .  .  .223 

THE  DEAN  GIVES  MR.  POPE  NEWS  OF  Gulliver        .  .224 

Miss  EDGE  WORTH  VISITS  SIR  WALTER  IN  EDINBURGH  .     227 

Miss  EDGEWORTH  VIS.TS  SIR  WALTER  AT  ABBOTSFORD  .     233 

DR.  JOHN  BROWN  MEETS  THACKERAY          .  .  .     235 

THACKERAY  PRAISES  DICKENS  TO  MRS.  BROOKFIELD  .     236 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD  IN  A  HOUSEFUL  OF  CHILDREN  .     238 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  REPORTS  PROGRESS  .  .  .     239 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD  DESCRIBES  HIS  SIR  JOSHUA  .  .     240 

XI.     GUESTS   AND   THE   PLAY 

MACAULAY  DESCRIBES  HIS  FIRST  VISIT  TO  HOLLAND  HOUSE  243 
CHARLES  LAMB  AMONG  THE  BLUE-STOCKINGS  .  .  247 

THE  REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH  DECLINES  TWO  INVITATIONS  .  250 
ClCERO  ENTERTAINS  CAESAR  .  .  .  .  .251 

xii 


PAG« 

CHARLES  LAMB  RETURNS  THANKS  FOR  A  LITTLE  PIG  .252 

PLINY  TELLS  SEPTITIUS  CLARUS  WHAT  HE  HAS  MISSED        .     254 
THE  REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH  THANKS  MR.  ARTHUR  KINGLAKE 

FOR  A  BOOK  AND  ENLARGES  ON  DIGESTION        .  .255 

CHARLES  DICKENS  AT  A  FRENCH  MELODRAMA          .  .255 

THACKERAY  DESCRIBES  TO  MRS.  BROOKFIELD  HIS  ADVEN- 
TURES IN  A  PARIS  THEATRE  .  .  .  -258 

CHARLES  LAMB  CONFESSES  TO  A  NIGHT  OF  IT  .  .263 

EPISTOLARY  SENTENTI^E         .  .  .  .  .265 


XII.    HUMORISTS  AND   ODDITIES 

THE  LADIES'  BATTLE,  IN  FOUR  LETTERS  .  .  .267 

CHARLES  LAMB  SOFTENS  THE  LOSS  OF  A  BROTHER  .  .269 

WILLIAM  COWPER  RECEIVES  A  VISITOR,  AND  BECOMES  A 

PROPHET  IN  HIS  OWN  COUNTRY  .  .  .  .272 

A  PARISH  CLERK  THINKS  BETTER  OF  IT,  AND  WITHDRAWS 

HIS  THREAT         ......    274 

ROBERT  ROBINSON  DESCRIBES  A  DAY'S  WORK  .  .277 

CHARLES  LAMB  SAVES  GEORGE  DYER'S  LIFE  .  -279 

WILLIAM  COWPER  is  SOLICITED  FOR  HIS  VOTE  .  .284 

CHARLES  DICKENS  GIVES  WILKIE  COLLINS  NEWS  OF  JOHN 

POOLE      .......     287 

ANOTHER  MODEL  LETTER  FROM  MARY  GUILHERMIN'S 

BOOK,  1766  ......    288 


XIII.     THE   PEN   REFLECTIVE 

HORACE  WALPOLE  IN  THE  VEIN  OF  ECCLESIASTES    .  .289 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU  CONTEMPLATES  FACTS  .     291 

WILLIAM  COWPER  MORALISES  ON  TIME         .            .  .     293 

JAMES  BEATTIE  COMPARES  HIMSELF  WITH  OTHERS    .  .     294 

THE  REV.  SYDNEY  SMITH  CONTEMPLATES  ANOTHER  AND  A 

BETTER  LIFE        .           .           .           .           .  .297 

SENECA  ENLARGES  TO  LUCILIUS  ON  OLD  AGE            .  .     298 

CHARLES  LAMB  LAMENTS  HIS  EXILE  .            .            .  .301 

xiii 


XIV.    THE  MEN  OF  ACTION 

PAGE 

ABRAHAM  CANN,  THE  DEVONSHIRE  WRESTLER,  CHALLENGES 

POLKINGHORNE,  THE  CORNISHMAN         .  .  .     307 

C.A.,  AN  OLD  AND  NOT  UNSOPHISTICATED  BOWLER,  GIVES  HIS 
CAPTAIN  A  WORD  OF  COUNSEL  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  ALL 
ENGLAND  MATCH  .....  307 

BOB  THOMS  THE  UMPIRE  SENDS  IN  HIS  RESIGNATION  .    308 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD  RECOMMENDS  TWO  LETTERS  .  .    309 

AN  OLD  SQUIRE  SUPPLIES  A  GENTLEMAN  WITH  AN  IMPARTIAL 

CHARACTER  OF  JOHN  GRAY        ....    309 
A  HUNTSMAN  INFORMS  HIS  MASTER  OF  THE  MISFORTUNE 
OF  HIS  DAUGHTER  AND  THE  STATE  OF  THE  HOUNDS      .     31! 

GEORGE  FORESTER  GIVES  MR.  CHAMBERS  AN  ACCOUNT  OF 

THE  DEATH  AND  FUNERAL  OF  TOM  MOODY       .  .312 

SERGEANT  DUNT  CRAVES  PERMISSION  TO  FISH  IN  COL.  CART- 
WRIGHT'S  STREAM  .  .  .  .  .313 

CAPTAIN  NELSON  TELLS  COLLINGWOOD  OF  HIS  HOPES  AND 

FEARS  WITH  REGARD  TO  THE  FRENCH      .  .  .314 

XV.    AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

SIR  WILLIAM  NAPIER  TELLS  LADY  HESTER  STANHOPE  THE 

STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE          .....    316 

XVI.    FRIENDSHIP  AND   MORE 

MARJORIE  FLEMING  SENDS  HER  MOTHER  HER  LOVE             .  327 

THE  DEAN  IN  DUBLIN  TO  MRS.  MARTHA  BLOUNT  IN  TOWN  328 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD  REPLIES  AT  ONCE       .            .            .  330 
LORD  NELSON  ANTICIPATES  TO  COLLINGWOOD  THE  BATTLE 

OF  TRAFALGAR     .  .  .  .  .  .332 

DR.  JOHNSON  MAKES  Miss  SUSANNAH  THRALE  HAPPY        .  332 
LORD  COLLINGWOOD  WRITES  TO  LADY  COLLINGWOOD  OF 

HIS   WEARINESS    OF   THE    SEA   AND   THE   EDUCATION   OF 
THEIR  CHILDREN    .  .  .  .  .  •      333 

THACKERAY  DROPS  INTO  VERSE  TO  MRS.  BROOKFIELD         .    336 

M.  DE  BONSTETTEN  DESCRIBES  CAMBRIDGE,  AND  MR.  GRAY 

DESCRIBES  M.  DE  BONSTETTEN   .  .  .  •      337 

xiv 


PAGE 

CORPORAL  WILLIAM  FOLLOWS  SENDS  GREETING  TO  COLONEL 

WILLIAM  NAPIER  .  .  .  .  -     339 

AN  INDIAN  PUPIL  SYMPATHISES  WITH  SIR  GEORGE  GROVE 

AFTER  AN  ACCIDENT         .....     340 
MR.  GRAY  UNLOCKS  HIS  HEART  TO  RICHARD  WEST  .    340 

DEAN  SWIFT  is  ANXIOUS  FOR  MR.  POPE'S  HEALTH  .  .341 

DICK  STEELE  IN  CHAINS         .....    343 
M.  DESTROSSES,  A  FRENCH  PRISONER,  TELLS  Miss  SEWARD 

THE  NEWS  OF  HIS  RELEASE        ....    346 
JOHN  STERLING  BIDS  HIS  FRIEND  FAREWELL  .  .    346 


XVII.    THE  RURAL  RECLUSES 

CHARLES  NAPIER  LONGS  FOR  PEACE  .  .  .  348 
EDWARD  FITZGERALD  WITH  NERO  AND  A  NIGHTINGALE  .  350 
MR.  GRAY  DESCRIBES  HIS  RURAL  FELICITY  .  .  .351 
WILLIAM  COWPER  SPECULATES  ON  THE  PICTS  .  -353 
PLINY  DESCRIBES  HIS  VILLA  TO  APPOLLINARIS  .  .355 
SHELLEY  BATHES  AT  LUCCA  .  .  .  .  .362 
MR.  SHENSTONE  GIVES  MR.  JAGO  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  COUN- 
TRY CONTENTMENTS  .  .  .  .  .365 

PLINY  RETURNS  TO  NATURE    .  .  .  .  .367 

WILLIAM  COWPER  IN  AT  THE  DEATH  .  .  .    368 


XVIII.     SHADOWS 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  ACCEPTS  THE  BLOW  .  .  .370 

LORD  COLLINGWOOD  THANKS  THE  DUKE  OF  CLARENCE  FOR 

ENNOBLING  HIM  AND  TELLS  HIM  OF  NELSON'S  DEATH  .  373 
CHARLES  LAMB  LOSES  AN  OLD  FRIEND  .  .  .374 

JEREMY  TAYLOR  TELLS  JOHN  EVELYN  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 

A  LITTLE  SON       ......    377 

JEREMY  TAYLOR  WISHES  JOHN  EVELYN  WELL  .  .377 

JEREMY  TAYLOR  COMFORTS  JOHN  EVELYN  IN  THE  DEATH 

OF  A  SON  ......    377 

XV 


XIX.    SIX  POSTSCRIPTS 

I.   REMARKS  ON  THE  GENTLEST  ART  BY  GOOD  INTELLECTS 
II.   THE  EARLIEST  LETTER     ....-» 

III.   THE  EARLIEST  LETTER  BY  AN  ENGLISHWOMAN  (WITHOUT 
POSTSCRIPT)          ...... 

iv.   THE  BABOO  AS  LETTER- WRITER  . 
v.   EXAMPLES  OF  THE  GENTLEST  ART  DRAWN  FROM  THE 

WORKS  OF  FICTION 
VI.  A  MODEL  . 

TERMINAL 


PAGE 
382 

399 

400 
402 

406 
420 

421 


\ 


XVI 


THE    GENTLEST   ART 


THE    GENTLEST   ART 
I 

CHILDREN   AND   GRANDFATHERS 

Marjorie  Fleming  writes  her  first  letter        ^^        -^ 

MY  DEAR  ISA,  —  I -now  sit  down  to  answer  all  your 
kind  and  beloved  letters  which  you  was  so  good 
as  to  write  to  me.  This  is  the  first  time  1  ever  wrote  a 
letter  in  my  Life.  There  are  a  great  many  Girls  in  the 
Square  and  they  cry  just  like  a  pig  when  we  are  under  the 
painfull  necessity  of  putting  it  to  Death.  Miss  Potune 
a  Lady  of  my  acquaintance  praises  me  dreadfully.  I 
repeated  something  out  of  Dean  Swift,  and  she  said  I 
was  fit  for  the  stage,  and  you  may  think  I  was  primmed 
up  with  majestick  Pride,  but  upon  my  word  I  felt  myselfe 
turn  a  little  birsay  —  birsay  is  a  word  which  is  a  word 
that  William  composed  which  is  as  you  may  suppose  a 
little  enraged.  This  horrid  fat  simpliton  says  that  my 
Aunt  is  beautifull  which  is  intirely  impossible  for  that  is 
not  her  nature.  ;  »*,»»* 

B 


Two  Edinburgh  Reviewers 

The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  threatens  his  little  grand- 
daughter with  awful  penalties  for  omitting  to 
stamp  his  letter  properly  ^^y  *Cy  ^y 

I  H,  you  little  wretch !  your  letter  cost  me  fourpence. 
I  will  pull  all  the  plums  out  of  your  puddings ;  I 
will  undress  your  dolls  and  steal  their  under  petticoats ; 
you  shall  have  no  currant-jelly  to  your  rice;  I  will  kiss 
you  till  you  cannot  see  out  of  your  eyes ;  when  nobody 
else  whips  you,  I  will  do  so ;  I  will  fill  you  so  full  of 
sugar-plums  that  they  shall  run  out  of  your  nose  and  ears ; 
lastly,  your  frocks  shall  be  so  short  that  they  shall  not 
come  below  your  knees.  Your  loving  grandfather, 

SYDNEY  SMITH 

Lord  Jeffrey  of  the  Edinburgh  Review  becomes  very 
human  ^-^v  "v^-  xo><  /<^>'  ^v^y  -*v^ 

(To  a  Grandchild) 

CRAIGCROOK,  June  20,  1848 

MY  SONSY  NANCY!  — I  love  you  very  much,  and 
think  very  often  of  your  dimples,  and  your 
pimples,  and  your  funny  little  plays,  and  all  your  pretty 
ways;  and  I  send  you  my  blessing,  and  wish  I  were 
kissing,  your  sweet  rosy  lips,  or  your  fat  finger-tips ;  and 
that  you  were  here,  so  that  I  could  hear  you  stammering 
words,  from  a  mouthful  of  curds ;  and  a  great  purple 
tongue  (as  broad  as  it's  long)  ;  and  see  your  round  eyes, 
open  wide  with  surprise,  and  your  wondering  look,  to 
find  yourself  at  Craigcrook!  To-morrow  is  Maggie's 
birthday,  and  we  have  built  up  a  great  bonfire  in  honour  of 
it ;  ^anA  Maggie.  Rutherfurd  (do  you  remember  her  at  all?) 
2 


Frankie's  Freckles 

is  coming  out  to  dance  round  it ;  and  all  the  servants  are 
to  drink  her  health,  and  wish  her  many  happy  days  with 
you  and  Frankie, —  and  all  the  mammays  and  pappys, 
whether  grand  or  not  grand.  We  are  very  glad  to  hear 
that  she  and  you  love  each  other  so  well,  and  are  happy 
in  making  each  other  happy;  and  that  you  do  not  forget 
dear  Tarley  or  Frankie,  when  they  are  out  of  sight,  nor 
Granny  either,  —  or  even  old  Granny  pa,  who  is  in  most 
danger  of  being  forgotten,  he  thinks.  We  have  had 
showery  weather  here,  but  the  garden  is  full  of  flowes ; 
and  Frankie  has  a  new  wheel-barrow,  and  does  a  great 
deal  of  work,  and  some  mischief  now  and  then.  All  the  dogs 
are  very  well ;  and  Foxey  is  mine,  and  Froggy  is  Tarley's, 
and  Frankie  has  taken  up  with  great  white  Neddy, — 
so  that  nothing  is  left  for  Granny  but  old  barking  Jacky 
and  Dover  when  the  carriage  comes.  The  donkey  sends 
his  compliments  to  you,  and  maintains  that  you  are  a 
cousin  of  his!  or  a  near  relation,  at  all  events.  He 
wishes,  too,  that  you  and  Maggie  would  come ;  for  he 
thinks  that  you  will  not  be  so  heavy  on  his  back  as 
Tarley  and  Maggie  Rutherfurd,  who  now  ride  him  without 
mercy. 

This  is  Sunday,  and  AH  is  at  church  —  Granny  and  I 
taking  care  of  Frankie  till  she  comes  back,  and  he  is 
now  hammering  very  busily  at  a  corner  of  the  carpet, 
which  he  says  does  not  lie  flat.  He  is  very  good,  and 
really  too  pretty  for  a  boy,  though  I  think  his  two  eye- 
brows are  growing  into  one,  —  stretching  and  meeting 
each  other  above  his  nose!  But  he  has  not  so  many 
freckles  as  Tarley,  who  has  a  very  fine  crop  of  them, 
which  she  and  I  encourage  as  much  as  we  can.  I  hope 
you  and  Maggie  will  lay  in  a  stock  of  them,  as  I  think  no 
little  girl  can  be  pretty  without  them  in  summer.  Our 
pea-hens  are  suspected  of  having  young  families  in  some 
3 


"The  Little  Span-Long  Elf" 

hidden  place,  for  though  they  pay  us  short  visits  now  and 
then,  we  see  them  but  seldom,  and  always  alone.  If  you 
and  Maggie  were  here  with  your  sharp  eyes,  we  think 
you  might  find  out  their  secret,  and  introduce  us  to  a 
nice  new  family  of  young  peas.  The  old  papa  cock,  in 
the  meantime  says  he  knows  nothing  about  them,  and 
does  not  care  a  farthing  !  We  envy  you  your  young  peas 
of  another  kind,  for  we  have  none  yet,  nor  any  asparagus 
neither,  and  hope  you  "will  bring  some  down  to  us  in 
your  lap.  Tarley  sends  her  love,  and  I  send  mine  to  you 
all ;  though  I  shall  think  most  of  Maggie  to-morrow 
morning,  and  of  you  when  your  birth  morning  comes. 
When  is  that  do  you  know?  It  is  never  dark  now  here, 
and  we  might  all  go  to  bed  without  candles.  And  so 
bless  you  ever  and  ever,  my  dear  dimply  pussie.  —  Yout 
very  loving  GRANDPA 


John  Keats  is  pleased  to  be  an  uncle      ^>         x^ 

WINCHESTER,  September  [17],  Friday  [1819] 

MY  DEAR  GEORGE,  —  ...  I  admire  the  exact 
admeasurement  of  my  niece  in  your  mother's 
letter.  O !  the  little  span-long  elf.  I  am  not  the  least  a 
judge  of  the  proper  weight  and  size  of  an  infant.  Never 
trouble  yourselves  about  that.  She  is  sure  to  be  a  fine 
woman.  Let  her  have  only  delicate  nails  both  on  hands 
and  feet,  and  both  as  small  as  a  May-fly's,  who  will  live 
you  his  life  on  a  3  square  inch  of  oak-leaf;  and  nails  she 
must  have  quite  different  from  the  market-women  here, 
who  plough  into  butter  and  make  a  quarter-pound  taste 
of  it. 

I  intend  to  write  a  letter  to  your  wife,  and  there  I  may 
say  more  on  this  little    plump   subject  —  I    hope  she's 
4 


Dilke's  Parental  Mania 

plump.  "Still  harping  on  my  daughter!"  This  Win- 
chester is  a  place  tolerably  well  suited  to  me  :  there  is  a 
fine  cathedral,  a  college,  a  Roman  Catholic  chapel,  a 
Methodist  do.,  an  Independent  do. ;  and  there  is  not  one 
loom  or  anything  like  manufacturing  beyond  bread  and 
butter  in  the  whole  city. 

There  are  a  number  of  rich  Catholics  in  the  place.  It 
is  a  respectable,  ancient,  aristocratic  place,  and  moreover 
it  contains  a  nunnery.  Our  set  are  by  no  means  so  hail 
fellow  well  met  on  literary  subjects  as  we  were  wont  to 
be.  Reynolds  has  turn'd  to  the  law.  By  the  bye,  he 
brought  out  a  little  piece  at  the  Lyceum  calPd  One, 
Two,  Three,  Four :  by  Advertisement.  It  met  with 
complete  success.  The  meaning  of  this  odd  title  is 
explained  when  I  tell  you  the  principal  actor  is  a  mimic, 
who  takes  off  four  of  our  best  performers  in  the  course 
of  the  farce.  Our  stage  is  loaded  with  mimics.  I  did 
not  see  the  piece,  being  out  of  town  the  whole  time  it 
was  in  progress.  Dilke  is  entirely  swallowed  up  in  his 
boy.  'Tis  really  lamentable  to  what  a  pitch  he  carries  a 
sort  of  parental  mania. 

I  had  a  letter  from  him  at  Shanklin.  He  went  on  a 
word  or  two  about  the  Isle  of  Wight,  which  is  a  bit  of  [a] 
hobby  horse  of  his,  but  he  soon  deviated  to  his  boy.  "I 
am  sitting,"  says  he,  "  at  the  window,  expecting  my  boy 
from  school."  I  suppose  I  told  you  somewhere  that  he 
lives  in  Westminster,  arid  his  boy  goes  to  school  there, 
where  he  gets  beaten,  and  every  bruise  he  has,  and  I 
daresay  deserves,  is  very  bitter  to  Dilke.  The  place  I 
am  speaking  of  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  circumstance  which 
occurred  lately  at  Dilke's.  I  think  it  very  rich  and  drama- 
tic and  quite  illustrative  of  the  little  quiet  fun  that  he  will 
enjoy  sometimes. 

First  I  must  tell  you  that  their  house  is  at  the  corner 
5 


Mr.   Lamb's  Perplexity 

of  Great  Smith  Street,  so  that  some  of  the  windows  look 
into  one  street,  and  the  back  windows  into  another  round 
the  corner. 

Dilke  had  some  old  people  to  dinner  —  I  know  not  who, 
but  there  were  two  old  ladies  among  them.  Brown  was 
there  —  they  had  known  him  from  a  child. 

Brown  is  very  pleasant  with  old  women,  and  on  that 
day  it  seems  behaved  himself  so  winningly  that  they 
became  hand  and  glove  together,  and  a  little  compli- 
mentary. 

Brown  was  obliged  to  depart  early.  He  bid  them 
good-bye  and  passed  into  the  passage.  No  sooner  was 
his  back  turned  than  the  old  women  began  lauding 
him. 

When  Brown  had  reached  the  street  door,  and  was 
just  going,  Dilke  threw  up  the  window  and  call'd : 
"  Brown !  Brown !  They  say  you  look  younger  than 
ever  you  did."  Brown  went  on,  and  had  just  turned 
the  corner  into  the  other  street  when  Dilke  appeared  at 
the  back  window,  crying:  "Brown!  Brown!  By  God, 
they  say  you're  handsome  !"  You  see  what  a  many 
words  it  requires  to  give  any  identity  to  a  thing  I  could 
have  told  you  in  half  a  minute.  .  .  . 

You  have  made  an  uncle  of  me,  you  have,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  myself.  I  suppose  next  there'll  be 
a  nevey.  You  say  in  May  last,  write  directly.  I  have 
not  received  your  letter  above  ten  days.  The  thought  of 
your  little  girl  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  thing  I  heard  Mr. 
Lamb  say.  A  child  in  arms  was  passing  by  his  chair 
toward  its  mother,  in  the  nurse's  arms.  Lamb  took  hold 
of  the  long  clothes,  saying:  "Where,  God  bless  me, 
where  does  it  leave  off  ?  " 

If  you  would  prefer  a  joke  or  two  to  anything  else,  I 
have  two  for  you,  fresh  hatched,  just  ris,  as  the  bakers7 
6 


Adonais  jokes 

wives  say  of  the  rolls.  The  first  I  played  off  on  Brown *, 
the  second  I  played  on  myself.  Brown,  when  he  left  me, 
"  Keats,"  says  he,  "  my  good  fellow "  (staggering  upon 
his  left  heel  and  fetching  an  irregular  pirouette  with  his 
right)  ;  "  Keats,"  says  he  (depressing  his  left  eyebrow 
and  elevating  his  right  one),  though  by  the  way  at  the 
moment  I  did  not  know  which  was  the  right  one ; 
"  Keats,"  says  he  (still  in  the  same  posture,  but  further- 
more both  his  hands  in  his  waistcoat  pockets  and  jutting 
out  his  stomach),  "  Keats,  —  my  —  go-o-ood  fell-o-o-ooh," 
says  he  (interlarding  his  exclamation  with  certain  ventri- 
loquial  parentheses), —  no,  this  is  all  a  lie  —  he  was  as  sober 
as  a  judge,  when  a  judge  happens  to  be  sober,  and  said : 
"  Keats,  if  any  letters  come  for  me,  do  not  forward  them, 
but  open  them  and  give  me  the  marrow  of  them  in  a  few 
words."  At  the  time  I  wrote  my  first  to  him  no  letter 
had  arrived.  I  thought  I  would  invent  one,  and  as  I  had 
not  time  to  manufacture  a  long  one,  I  dabbed  off  a  short 
one,  and  that  was  the  reason  of  the  joke  succeeding 
beyond  my  expectations.  Brown  let  his  house  to  a 
Mr.  Benjamin  —  a  Jew.  Now,  the  water  which  furnishes 
the  house  is  in  a  tank,  sided  with  a  composition  of  lime, 
and  the  lime  impregnates  the  water  unpleasantly. 

Taking   advantage   of   this    circumstance,    I   pretended 
that  Mr.  Benjamin  had  written  the  following  short  note :  — 

"  SIR, —  By  drinking  your  damn'd  tank  water  I   have 
got  the  gravel. 

"What  reparation  can  you  make  to  me  and  my  family? 

"  NATHAN  BENJAMIN  " 

By  a  fortunate  hit,  I  hit  upon  his  right  —  heathen  name 
—  his  right  prenomen.     Brown  in  consequence,  it  appears, 
wrote  to  the  surprised  Mr.  Benjamin  the  following :  — 
7 


The  New  Grandfather 

"  SIR,  —  I  cannot  offer  you  any  remuneration  until  your 
gravel  shall  have  formed  itself  into  a  stone  —  when  I  will 
cut  you  with  pleasure.  C.  BROWN  " 

This  of  Brown's  Mr.  Benjamin  has  answered,  insisting 
on  an  explanation  of  this  singular  circumstance.  B. 
says :  "  When  I  read  your  letter  and  his  following,  I 
roared;  and  in  came  Mr.  Snook,  who  on  reading  them 
seemed  likely  to  burst  the  hoops  of  his  fat  sides." 

So  the  joke  has  told  well.  .  .  . 

Shirley  Brooks  congratulates  W.  P.  Frith,  R.A.,on  arriv- 
ing at  the  status  of  a  grandfather,  and  adds  counsel 

" PUNCH"  OFFICE,  November  21,  1865 

T^RITH,  EVEN  GRANDFATHER  FRITH,— With 
J-  my  whole  soul  do  I  congratulate  thee  and  the 
Grandmama,  and  the  venerable  Aunt  Sissy,  and  all  the 
small  uncles  and  infinitesimal  aunts,  or  emmets.  But 
chiefly  I  congratulate  thee,  O  reverent  and  reverend,  for 
the  opportunity  now  afforded  thee  for  the  mending  of  thy 
ways.  Henceforth  we  look  for  no  frivolity  from  thee,  no 
unseemly  gibes  and  jests  to  which  thou  alone  addest, 
"That's  good,"  and  echo  is  silent.  Henceforth  thou 
must  study  to  live  at  peace  with  all  men,  as  becomes 

white   hairs,   and   let   us   hear   no   more   when  an- 

nounceth  his  "  last  exhibition,"  that  thou  didst  hope  it 
would  begin  at  three  minutes  to  eight  a.m.  ;  and  be  at 
Newgate.  Truly  this  is  a  great  chance  for  thee,  O  man 
of  palettes,  and  aerial  prospectives,  and  conscientious 
work,  such  as  the  Athenceum  loves  to  indicate  with  the 
gesture  called  "  taking  a  sight." 

Learn    psalms    and    hymns   and    spiritual     songs,    to 
8 


"  L'art  d'etre  grandpere  " 

be  chanted  unto  thy  Grandchild ;  and  endeavour  to 
obtain  some  knowledge  of  geography,  etymology,  tin- 
tacks,  and  prosody,  that  thou  mayest  not  be  put  utterly 
to  shame  when  the  child  shall  demand  information  of 
thee. 

Leave  off  smoking,  yet  keep  a  box  for  thy  younger 
friends  who  are  not  Grandfathers. 

Scoff  not  at  architects,  for  where  wouldst  thou  be  but  for 
houses  ?  Nay,  art  not  thou  the  founder  of  a  house  ? 

Look  no  longer  at  the  ankles  of  the  other  sex,  save  in 
the  way  of  thy  calling,  and  speak  no  soft  words  unto  the 
maidens,  saying,  "  Lo?  I  adore  thee,"  when  thou  dost 
nothing  of  the  kind.  Abjure  the  society  of  low  Bohe- 
mians like  and  ,  but  cultivate  the  honest  and 

virtuous,  like  Brooks,  and,  in  so  far  as  thou  mayest, 
imitate  him.  Do  not  eat  too  much  ham  at  breakfast,  for 
temperance  becometh  the  aged.  Read  few  novels,  but 
let  those  thou  readest  be  of  the  best,  as,  Broken  to  Har- 
ness, The  Silver  Cord,  An  Artisfs  Proof,  and  Blount 
Tempest.  Likewise,  begin  to  dress  less  jauntily,  and  wear 
a  high  waistcoat  like  the  Right  Reverend  Bellew,  and  the 
Right  Reverend  Brooks's. 

When  .thou  goest  to  the  Academy  dinner,  avoid,  so  far 
as  thou  canst,  the  taking  too  much  wine,  for  what  thing  is 
less  dignified  than  a  swipey, Grandfather? 

Cherish  these  counsels  in  the  apple  of  thine  eye,  and  in 
the  pineapple  of  thy  rum ;  and  be  thankful  that  at  a  time 
of  life  when  other  young  men  may  not  ungracefully  in- 
dulge in  youthful  levity,  thou  art  called  to  a  higher  and  a 
graver  sphere. 

Buy  a  stick,  and  practise  walking  with  it,  bending  thy 
back,  and  not  perking  up  elegantly  when  a  comely  female 
passeth  by. 

Have  grave  men  to  thy  feasts,  notably  him  who  ex- 
9 


Sarah  Ann  Dunn 

pecteth  the  interview  with  Mrs.  Cottle,  and  to  suffer 
as  he  never  suffered  before.  So  I  greet  thee,  Grand- 
father, and  hope  that  thou  wilt  have  many  grandsons  and 
granddaughters,  and  wilt  ask  me  to  the  christening  of 
them  all.  S.  B. 


A  mother  informs  the  Controller  of  the  London 
"Guild  of  Play"  of  the  good  it  has  done  to 
Sarah  Ann  ^v  xv>  -^  *^y  ^^ 

DERE  AND  HONERABLE  MAAM,  — I  make  so 
bold  aster  arsk  if  there  can  be  a  Guild  of  Play  at 
every  skule  this  winter,  as  I  gets  more  work  out  of  our 
Sarah  Ann  now  she  goes  to  that  ther  one  of  yours  than 
ever  I  did  afore.  Her  head's  full  of  fairies,  and  sich  like 
truck,  but  it  makes  her  twice  the  gal  she  was,  and  she 
was  anything  but  a  hangel  I  kin  tell  yer,  but  if  yer  can 
turn  er  inside  out  like  that  with  an  hour  a  week  I  wishes 
as  ow  all  the  children  could  ave  it  too.  —  From  yours 
obliging,  MRS.  DUNN 

Thomas  Hayley  (aged  twelve)  points  out  defects  in 
William  Cowper's  translation  of  Homer  *z> 

EARTHAM,  March  4,  1 793 

TTONORED  KING  OF  BARDS,  — Since  you  deign 
-TJ-  to  demand  the  observations  of  an  humble  and 
unexperienced  servant  of  yours,  on  a  work  of  one  who  is 
so  much  his  superior  (as  he  is  ever  ready  to  serve  you 
with  all  his  might)  behold  what  you  demand  !  but  let 
me  desire  you  not  to  censure  me  for  my  unskilful  and 
perhaps  (as  they  will  undoubtedly  appear  to  you)  ridicu- 
10 


An  Exacting  Twelve- Year-Old 

lous  observations ;  but  be  so  kind  as  to  receive  them  as 
a  mark  of  respectful  affection  from  your  obedient  servant, 

THOMAS  HAYLEY 

Book.        Line. 

I.  184.   I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to  these  ex- 

pressions, "  Ah,  cloth'd  with  impu- 
dence, etc."  ;  and  195,  "  Shameless 
wolf";  and  126,  "Face  of  flint." 

I.  508.  "  Dishonor^  foul,"  is,  in  my  opinion, 

an  uncleanly  expression. 

I.  651.  "ReePd,"  I  think  makes  it  appear  as 

if  Olympus  was  drunk. 

I.  749.  "  Kindler  of  the   fires  in  Heaven,"  I 

think  makes  Jupiter  appear  too 
much  like  a  lamplighter. 

II.  317-319.  These  lines  are,  in  my  opinion,  below 
the  elevated  genius  of  Mr.  Cowper. 
XVIII.  300-304.  This  appears  to  me  to  be  rather 
Irish,  since  in  line  300  you  say, 
"No  one  sat,"  and  in  304,  "Poly- 
damas  rose." 


The  Guilty  Poet  replies        ^>        ^>        ^>        ^ 

WESTON,  March  14,  1793 
DEAR  LITTLE  CRITIC,  — I  thank  you  heartily 


for  your  observations,  on  which  I  set  an  higher 
value,  because  they  have  instructed  me  as  much,  and 
have  entertained  me  more,  than  all  the  other  strictures 
of  our  public  judges  in  these  matters.  Perhaps  I  am 
not  much  more  pleased  with  shameless  wolf,  etc.,  than 
you.  But  what  is  to  be  done,  my  little  man?  Coarse 
ii 


A  Humble  Poet 

as  the  expressions  are,  they  are  no  more  than  equivalent 
to  those  of  Homer.  The  invective  of  the  ancients  was 
never  tempered  with  good  manners,  as  your  papa  can 
tell  you !  and  my  business,  you  know,  is  not  to  be  more 
polite  than  my  author,  but  to  represent  him  as  closely  as 
I  can. 

Dishonored  foul  I  have  wiped  away,  for  the  reason  you 
give,  which  is  a  very  just  one,  and  the  present  reading  is 
this  — 

Who  had  dared  dishonor  thus 
The  life  itself,  etc. 

Your  objection  to  kindler  of  the  fires  of  heaven,  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  anticipate,  and  expunged  the  dirty 
ambiguity  some  time  since,  wondering,  not  a  little,  that  I 
had  ever  admitted  it. 

The  fault  you  find  with  the  two  first  verses  of  Nestor's 
speech,  discovers  such  a  degree  of  just  discernment,  that 
but  for  your  papa's  assurance  to  the  contrary,  I  must  have 
suspected  him  as  the  author  of  that  remark:  much  as  I 
should  have  respected  it,  if  it  had  been  so,  I  value  it,  I 
assure  you,  my  little  friend,  still  more  as  yours.  In  the  new 
edition  the  passage  will  be  found  thus  altered  — 

Alas !  great  sorrow  falls  on  Greece  to-day, 
Priam,  and  Priam's  sons,  with  all  in  Troy. 
Oh !  how  will  they  exult,  and  in  their  hearts 
Triumph,  once  hearing  of  this  broil  between 
The  prime  of  Greece,  in  council,  and  in  arms. 

Where  the  word  reel  suggests  to  you  the  idea  of  a 
drunken  mountain,  it  performs  the  service  to  which  I 
destined  it.  It  is  a  bold  metaphor;  but  justified  by 
one  of  the  sublimest  passages  in  Scripture,  compared 
with  the  sublimity  of  which  even  that  of  Homer  suffers 
humiliation. 

12 


"  Olympus  shall  be  tipsy  " 

It  is  God  himself  who,  speaking,  I  think,  by  the 
prophet  Isaiah,  says  — 

"  The  earth  shall  reel  to  and  fro  like  a  drunkard." 

With  equal  boldness  in  the  same  scripture,  the  poetry 
of  which  was  never  equalled,  mountains  are  said  to  skip, 
to  break  out  into  singing,  and  the  fields  to  clap  their 
hands.  I  intend,  therefore,  that  my  Olympus  shall  be 
tipsy. 

The  accuracy  of  your  last  remark,  in  which  you  con- 
victed me  of  a  bull,  delights  me.  A  fig  for  all  critics  but 
you!  The  blockheads  could  not  find  it.  It  shall  stand 
thus  — 

First  spake  Poly  dam  as 

Homer  was  more  upon  his  guard  than  to  commit  such 
a  blunder,  for  he  says  — 

"  Tjpx  ayopeveiv. " 

And  now,  my  dear  little  censor,  once  more  accept  my 
thanks.  I  only  regret  that  your  strictures  are  so  few, 
being  just  and  sensible  as  they  are. 

Tell  your  papa  that  he  shall  hear  from  me  soon ; 
accept  mine,  and  my  dear  invalid's  affectionate  remem- 
brances. —  Ever  yours,  W.  C. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  (aged  fourteen)  keeps 
Mrs.  Hannah  More  (aged  seventy)  informed  of 
what  is  going  on  ^>  ^^  ^>  x^>- 

CLAPHAM,  Jamiary  16,  1815 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,  —  My  mamma  was  on  the  point 
of  writing  to  inform  you  that  a  supposed  favour- 
able alteration  has  taken  place  in  Mr.  Henry  Thornton's 

13 


The  Poets  in   1815 

case.  His  physicians  are  still  sanguine  in  their  expecta- 
tions ;  but  his  friends,  who  examine  his  disorder  by  the 
rules  of  common  sense,  and  not  by  those  of  medicine,  are 
very  weak  in  their  hopes.  The  warm  bath  has  been 
prescribed ;  and  it  is  the  wish  and  prayer  of  all  who  know 
him  that  so  excellent  and  valuable  a  character  may  be 
preserved  to  the  world. 

You  will  believe,  my  dear  madam,  that  no  one  rejoices 
more  than  I  do  at  your  recovery  from  the  effects  of  the 
fatal  accident  which  threatened  us.  Events  like  these 
prove  to  us  the  strength  of  our  affection  for  our  friends,  — 
shew  the  esteem  in  which  great  characters  are  held  by 
the  world. 

We  are  eagerly  expecting  the  promised  essay,  which 
will  indeed  be  a  most  important  addition  to  the  literary 
history  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  fifteen,  ample 
as  that  already  is.  Every  eminent  writer  of  poetry,  good 
or  bad,  has  been  publishing  within  the  last  month,  or  is 
to  publish  shortly.  Lord  Byron's  pen  is  at  work  over  a 
poem  as  yet  nameless.  Lucien  Buonaparte  has  given 
the  world  his  Charlemagne.  Scott  has  published  his 
Lord  of  the  Isles,  in  six  cantos,  a  beautiful  and  elegant 
poem ;  and  Southey  his  Roderick,  the  last  of  the  Goths. 
Wordsworth  has  printed  The  Excursion  (a  ponderous 
quarto  of  five  hundred  pages),  "being  a  portion  of  the 
intended  poem  entitled  The  Recluse."  What  the  length 
of  this  intended  poem  is  to  be,  as  the  Grand  Vizier  said 
of  the  Turkish  poet,  "  N?est  connu  qu1a  Dieu  et  a  M. 
Wordsworth."  This  forerunner,  however,  is,  to  say  no 
more,  almost  as  long  as  it  is  dull ;  not  but  that  there  are 
many  striking  and  beautiful  passages  interspersed;  but 
who  would  wade  through  a  poem 

" where,  perhaps,  one  beauty  shines 

In  the  dry  desert  of  a  thousand  lines  ?  " 

14 


Poetry  at  every  Meal 

To  add  to  the  list,  my  dear  madam,  you  will  soon  see  a 
work  of  mine  in  print.  Do  not  be  frightened !  it  is  only  the 
index  to  the  thirteenth  volume  of  the  Christian  Observer, 
which  I  have  had  the  honour  of  composing.  Index- 
making,  though  the  lowest,  is  not  the  most  useless  round 
in  the  ladder  of  literature ;  and  I  pride  myself  upon 
being  able  to  say  that  there  are  many  readers  of  the 
Christian  Observer  who  could  do  without  Walter  Scott's 
works,  but  not  without  those  of,  my  dear  Madam,  your 
affectionate  friend,  THOMAS  B.  MACAULAY 

P.S.  —  Give  my  love  to  your  sisters,  if  you  please,  and 
to  my  Aunt  Thatcher,  if  still  with  you.  My  mamma  has 
just  now  received  her  letter. 

Hannah  More  informs  Zachary  Macaulay,  Esq.,  of  the 
mental  progress  of  his  son        ^>        ^>        *^> 

BARLEY  WOOD,/#/X  21,  1815  (?) 

MY  DEAR  SIR,— I  wanted  Tom  to  write  to-day, 
but  as  he  is  likely  to  be  much  engaged  with  a 
favourite  friend,  and  I  shall  have  no  time  to-morrow,  I 
scribble  a  line.  This  friend  is  a  sensible  youth  at 
Woolwich :  he  is  qualifying  for  the  artillery.  I  overheard 
a  debate  between  them  on  the  comparative  merits  of 
Eugene  and  Marlborough  as  generals.  The  quantity 
of  reading  that  Tom  has  poured  in,  and  the  quantity  of 
writing  he  has  poured  out,  is  -astonishing.  It  is  in  vain 
I  have  tried  to  make  him  subscribe  to  Sir  Henry  Savile's 
notion,  that  the  poets  are  the  best  writers  next  to  those 
who  write  prose.  We  have  poetry  for  breakfast,  dinner, 
and  supper.  He  recited  all  "  Palestine,"  while  we  break- 
fasted, to  our  pious  friend  Mr.  Whalley,  at  my  desire,  and 
did  it  incomparably. 


Young  Shoulders 

I  was  pleased  with  his  delicacy  in  one  thing.  You 
know  the  Italian  poets,  like  the  French,  too  much  indulge 
in  the  profane  habit  of  attesting  the  Supreme  Being ;  but, 
without  any  hint  from  me,  whenever  he  comes  to  the 
Sacred  Name,  he  reverently  passes  it  over.  I  sometimes 
fancy  I  observe  a  daily  progress  in  the  growth  of  his 
mental  powers.  His  fine  promise  of  mind  expands  more 
and  more,  and,  what  is  extraordinary,  he  has  as  much 
accuracy  in  his  expression  as  spirit  and  vivacity  in  his 
imagination.  I  like,  too,  that  he  takes  a  lively  interest 
in  all  passing  events,  and  that  the  child  is  still  preserved ; 
I  like  to  see  him  boyish  as  he  is  studious,  and  that  he  is 
as  much  amused  with  making  a  pat  of  butter  as  a  poem. 
Though  loquacious,  he  is  very  docile,  and  I  don^t  re- 
member a  single  instance  in  which  he  has  persisted  in 
doing  anything  when  he  saw  we  did  not  approve  it. 
Several  men  of  sense  and  learning  have  been  struck  with 
the  union  of  gaiety  and  rationality  in  his  conversation. 

It  was  a  pretty  trait  of  him  yesterday :  being  invited 
to  dine  abroad,  he  hesitated  and  then  said,  "  No ;  I  have 
so  few  days  that  I  will  give  them  all  to  you.1'  And  he 
said  to-day  at  dinner,  when  speaking  of  his  journey, 
"  I  know  not  whether  to  think  on  my  journey  with  most 
pain  or  pleasure — with  most  kindness  for  my  friends, 
or  affection  for  my  parents."  Sometimes  we  converse 
in  ballad-rhymes,  sometimes  in  Johnsonian  sesqui- 
pedalians ;  at  tea,  we  condescend  to  riddles  and  charades. 
He  rises  early,  and  walks  an  hour  or  two  before  break- 
fast, generally  composing  verses.  I  encourage  him  to 
live  much  in  the  open  air;  this,  with  great  exercise  on 
these  airy  summits,  I  hope,  will  invigorate  his  body; 
though  his  frail  body  is  sometimes  tired,  the  spirits  are 
never  exhausted.  He  is,  however,  not  sorry  to  be  sent 
to  bed  soon  after  nine,  and  seldom  stays  to  our  supper. 
16 


A  Long  Parenthesis 

A  new  poem  is  produced  less  incorrect  than  its  pre- 
decessors—  it  is  an  excellent  satire  on  radical  reform, 
under  the  title  of  "Clodpole  and  the  Quack  Doctor.1' 
It  is  really  good.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  they  are  thrown 
by  as  soon  as  they  have  been  once  read,  and  he  thinks 
no  more  of  them.  He  has  very  quick  perceptions  of  the 
beautiful  and  defective  in  composition.  I  received  your 
note  last  night,  and  Tom  his  humbling  one.  I  tell  him 
he  is  incorrigible  in  the  way  of  tidiness.  The  other 
day,  talking  of  what  were  the  symptoms  of  a  gentleman, 
he  said,  with  some  humour,  and  much  £#0^-humour,  that 
he  had  certain  infallible  marks  of  one;  which  were, 
neatness,  love  of  cleanliness,  and  delicacy  in  his  person. 
I  know  not  when  I  have  written  so  long  a  scrawl ;  but  I 
thought  you  and  his  good  mother  would  feel  an  interest 
in  any  trifles  which  related  to  him.  I  hope  it  will  please 
God  to  prosper  his  journey,  and  restore  him  in  safety  to 
you.  Let  us  hear  of  his  arrival. — Yours,  my  dear  sir, 
very  sincerely,  H.  MORE 

P.S.  —  To-morrow  we  go  to  Bristol. 


Lewis  Carroll  writes  to  three  of  his  little  girl  friends 

I 

CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD,  March  8,  1880 

MY    DEAR    ADA— (Isn't    that    your    short   name? 
"  Adelaide "   is  all  very  well,   but  you   see   when 
one  is   dreadfully  busy  one  hasn't  time  to   write   such 
long  words  —  particularly  when  it  takes  one  half-hour  to 
remember  how  to  spell  it  —  and  even  then  one  has  to  go 
and  get  a  dictionary  to  see  if  one  has  spelt  it  right,  and 
of  course  the  dictionary  is  in  another  room,  at  the  top  of 
c  17 


The  Three  Cats 

a  high  bookcase  —  where  it  has  been  for  months  and 
months  —  and  has  got  all  covered  with  dust.  So  one  has 
to  get  a  duster  first  of  all,  and  nearly  choke  oneself  in 
dusting  it  —  and  when  one  has  made  out  at  last  which  is 
dictionary  and  which  is  dust,  even  then  there  is  the  job  of 
remembering  which  end  of  the  alphabet  "  A  "  comes  —  for 
one  feels  pretty  certain  it  isn't  in  the  middle  —  then  one 
has  to  go  and  wash  one's  hands  before  turning  over  the 
leaves  —  for  they've  got  so  thick  with  dust,  one  hardly 
knows  them  by  sight  —  and,  as  likely  as  not,  the  soap  is 
lost,  and  the  jug  is  empty,  and  there's  no  towel,  and  one 
has  to  spend  hours  and  hours  in  finding  things  —  and 
perhaps  after  all,  one  has  to  go  off  to  the  shop  to  buy 
a  new  cake  of  soap.  So,  with  all  this  bother,  I  hope  you 
won't  mind  my  writing  it  short  and  saying,  "My  dear 
Ada  "),  —  You  said  in  your  letter  you  would  like  a  likeness 
of  me :  so  here  it  is,  and  I  hope  you  will  like  it.  I  won't 
forget  to  call  the  next  time  but  one  I'm  in  Wallington. 
—  Your  very  affectionate  friend,  LEWIS  CARROLL 

II 

[No  date] 

MY  DEAR  AGNES,  —  You  lazy  thing !  What  ?  I'm 
to  divide  the  kisses,  am  I  ?  Indeed  I  won't  take 
the  trouble  to  do  anything  of  the  sort !  But  I'll  tell  you 
how  to  do  it.  First  you  must  take  four  of  the  kisses, 
and  —  and  that  reminds  me  of  a  very  curious  thing 
that  happened  to  me  at  half-past  four  yesterday.  Three 
visitors  came  knocking  at  my  door,  begging  me  to  let 
them  in.  And  when  I  opened  the  door,  who  do  you 
think  they  were  ?  You'll  never  guess ;  why,  they  were 
three  cats !  Wasn't  it  curious  ?  However,  they  all 
looked  so  cross  and  disagreeable  that  I  took  up  the  first 
18 


Drinking  Health 

thing  I  could  lay  my  hand  on  (which  happened  to  be  the 
rolling-pin)  and  knocked  them  all  down  as  flat  as  pan- 
cakes !  "  If  you  come  knocking  at  my  door,"  I  said, 
"  I  shall  come  knocking  at  your  heads.1'  That  was  fair, 
wasn't  it  ?  —  Yours  affectionately,  LEWIS  CARROLL 

III 

CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD,  October  13,  1875 

MY  DEAR  GERTRUDE,  — I  never  give  birthday 
presents,  but  you  see  I  do  sometimes  write  a 
birthday  letter :  so,  as  I've  just  arrived  here,  I  am  writing 
this  to  wish  you  many  and  many  a  happy  return  of  your 
birthday  to-morrow.  I  will  drink  your  health  if  only  I  can 
remember,  and  if  you  don't  mind  —  but  perhaps  you  object? 

You  see,  if  I  were  to  sit  by  you  at  breakfast,  and  to 
drink  your  tea,  you  wouldn't  like  that,  would  you  ?  You 
would  say,  "  Boo  !  hoo !  Here's  Mr.  Dodgson  drunk  all 
my  tea,  and  I  haven't  got  any  left !  "  So  I  am  very  much 
afraid,  next  time  Sybil  looks  for  you,  she'll  find  you  sitting 
by  the  sad  sea- waves  and  crying  "  Boo  !  hoo  !  Here's  Mr. 
Dodgson  has  drunk  my  health,  and  I  haven't  got  any  left ! " 

And  how  it  will  puzzle  Mr.  Maund,  when  he  is  sent  for 
to  see  you  !  "  My  dear  madam,  I'm  sorry  to  say  your 
little  girl  has  got  no  health  at  all  !  I  never  saw  such  a 
thing  in  my  life  ! "  "  You  see  she  would  go  and  make 
friends  with  a  strange  gentleman,  and  yesterday  he  drank 
her  health!"  "Well,  Mrs.  Chataway,"  he  will  say,  "the 
only  way  to  cure  her  is  to  wait  till  his  next  birthday,  and 
then  for  her  to  drink  his  health." 

And  then  we  shall  have  changed  healths.  I  wonder 
how  you'll  like  mine  !  Oh,  Gertrude,  I  wish  you  would 
not  talk  such  nonsense  !  .  .  .  Your  loving  friend, 

LEWIS  CARROLL 
'9 


"  That  she-Aristotle  Mary  " 
Charles  Lamb  entertains  a  poet's  son  ^v        ^y 

P.M.  November  25,  1819 

DEAR  MISS  WORDSWORTH,  — You  will  think  me 
negligent,  but  I  wanted  to  see  more  of  Willy, 
before  I  ventured  to  express  a  prediction.  Till  yester- 
day I  had  barely  seen  him —  Virgilium  Tantum  Vidi  — 
but  yesterday  he  gave  us  his  small  company  to  a  bullock's 
heart  —  and  I  can  pronounce  him  a  lad  of  promise.  He 
is  no  pedant  nor  bookworm,  so  far  I  can  answer.  Perhaps 
he  has  hitherto  paid  too  little  attention  to  other  men's 
inventions,  preferring,  like  Lord  Foppington,  the  "natural 
sprouts  of  his  own."  But  he  has  observation,  and  seems 
thoroughly  awake.  I  am  ill  at  remembering  other  people's 
bon  mots,  but  the  following  are  a  few.  Being  taken  over 
Waterloo  Bridge,  he  remarked  that  if  we  had  no  moun- 
tains, we  had  a  fine  river  at  least,  which  was  a  Touch  of 
the  Comparative,  but  then  he  added,  in  a  strain  which 
augured  less  for  his  future  abilities  as  a  Political  Econo- 
mist, that  he  supposed  they  must  take  at  least  a  pound  a 
week  Toll.  Like  a  curious  naturalist  he  inquired  if  the 
tide  did  not  come  up  a  little  salty.  This  being  satisfac- 
torily answered,  he  put  another  question  as  to  the  flux 
and  reflux,  which  being  rather  cunningly  evaded  than 
artfully  solved  by  that  she- Aristotle  Mary,  who  muttered 
something  about  its  getting  up  an  hour  sooner  and  sooner 
every  day,  he  sagely  replied,  "  Then  it  must  come  to  the 
same  thing  at  last,"  which  was  a  speech  worthy  of  an 
infant  Halley  !  The  Lion  in  the  'Change  by  no  means 
came  up  to  his  ideal  standard.  So  impossible  it  is  for 
Nature  in  any  of  her  works  to  come  up  to  the  standard 
of  a  child's  imagination.  The  whelps  (Lionets)  he  was 
sorry  to  find  were  dead,  and  on  particular  inquiry  his 
old  friend  the  Ouran  Outang  had  gone  the  way  of  all 
20 


"  I   cannot  hit  that  beast " 

flesh  also.  The  grand  Tiger  was  also  sick,  and  expected 
in  no  short  time  to  exchange  this  transitory  world  for 
another  —  or  none.  But  again,  there  was  a  Golden  Eagle 
(I  do  not  mean  that  of  Charing)  which  did  much  arride 
and  console  him.  William's  genius,  I  take  it,  leans  a 
little  to  the  figurative,  for  being  at  play  at  Tricktrack 
(a  kind  of  minor  Billiard-table  which  we  keep  for  smaller 
wights,  and  sometimes  refresh  our  own  mature  fatigues 
with  taking  a  hand  at)  not  being  able  to  hit  a  ball  he 
had  iterate  aimed  at,  he  cried  out,  "I  cannot  hit  that 
beast."  Now  the  balls  are  usually  called  men,  but  he 
felicitously  hit  upon  a  middle  term,  a  term  of  approxima- 
tion and  imaginative  reconciliation,  a  something  where 
the  two  ends,  of  the  brute  matter  (ivory)  and  their  human 
and  rather  violent  personification  into  men,  might  meet, 
as  I  take  it,  illustrative  of  that  Excellent  remark  in  a 
certain  Preface  about  Imagination,  explaining  "  like  a 
sea-beast  that  had  crawled  forth  to  sun  himself."  Not 
that  I  accuse  William  Minor  of  hereditary  plagiary,  or 
conceive  the  image  to  have  come  ex  traduce.  Rather  he 
seemeth  to  keep  aloof  from  any  source  of  imitation,  and 
purposely  to  remain  ignorant  of  what  mighty  poets  have 
done  in  this  kind  before  him.  For,  being  asked  if  his 
father  had  ever  been  on  Westminster  Bridge,  he  answer'd 
that  he  did  not  know. 

It  is  hard  to  discern  the  Oak  in  the  Acorn,  or  a  Temple 
like  St.  Paul's  in  the  first  stone  which  is  laid,  nor  can  I 
quite  prefigure  what  destination  the  genius  of  William 
Minor  hath  to  take.  Some  few  hints  I  have  set  down, 
to  guide  my  future  observations.  He  hath  the  power  of 
calculation  in  no  ordinary  degree  for  a  chit.  He  com- 
bineth  figures,  after  the  first  boggle,  rapidly.  As  in  the 
Tricktrack  board,  where  the  hits  are  figured,  at  first  he 
did  not  perceive  that  15  and  7  made  22,  but  by  a  little 

21 


A  Lake  Poet's  Son 

use  he  could  combine  8  with  25  — and  33  again  with  16, 
which  approacheth  something  in  kind  (far  let  me  be  from 
flattering  him  by  saying  in  degree)  to  that  of  the  famous 
American  boy.  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  think  I 
perceive  the  future  satirist  in  him,  for  he  hath  a  sub- 
sardonic  smile  which  bursteth  out  upon  occasion,  as 
when  he  was  asked  if  London  were  as  big  as  Ambleside, 
and  indeed  no  other  answer  was  given,  or  proper  to  be 
given,  to  so  ensnaring  and  provoking  a  question.  In 
the  contour  of  scull  certainly  I  discern  something 
paternal.  But  whether  in  all  respects  the  future  man 
shall  transcend  his  father's  fame,  Time,  the  trier  of 
geniuses,  must  decide.  Be  it  pronounced  peremptorily 
at  present,  that  Willy  is  a  well-manner'd  child,  and 
though  no  great  student,  hath  yet  a  lively  eye  for 
things  that  lie  before  him.  Given  in  haste  from  my 
desk  at  Leadenhall.  Your's  and  yours'  ruost  sincerely, 

C.  LAMB 

Shelley  visits  Allegra  in  the  convent  ^^y       ^>       ^> 
(To  Mrs.  Shelley) 

RAVENNA,  Augnit  15,  1821 

I  WENT  the  other  day  to  see  Allegra  at  her  convent, 
and  stayed  with  her  about  three  hours.  She  is  grown 
tall  and  slight  for  her  age,  and  her  face  is  somewhat 
altered.  The  traits  have  become  more  delicate,  and  she 
is  much  paler,  probably  from  the  effect  of  improper  food. 
She  yet  retains  the  beauty  of  her  deep  blue  eyes  and  of 
her  mouth,  but  she  has  a  contemplative  seriousness 
which,  mixed  with  her  excessive  vivacity,  which  has  not 
yet  deserted  her,  has  a  very  peculiar  effect  in  a  child. 
She  is  under  very  strict  discipline,  as  mav  be  observed 

22 


Another  Poet's  Daughter 

from  the  immediate  obedience  she  accords  to  the  will 
of  her  attendants.  This  seems  contrary  to  her  nature, 
but  I  do  not  think  it  has  been  obtained  at  the  expense 
of  much  severity.  Her  hair,  scarcely  darker  than  it  was, 
is  beautifully  profuse,  and  hangs  in  large  curls  on  her 
neck.  She  was  prettily  dressed  in  white  muslin,  and  an 
apron  of  black  silk,  with  trousers.  Her  light  and  airy 
figure  and  her  graceful  motions  were  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  other  children  there.  She  seemed  a  thing  of  a 
finer  and  a  higher  order.  At  first  she  was  very  shy,  but 
after  a  little  caressing,  and  especially  after  I  had  given 
her  a  gold  chain  which  I  had  bought  at  Ravenna  for  her, 
she  grew  more  familiar,  and  led  me  all  over  the  garden, 
and  all  over  the  convent,  running  and  skipping  so  fast 
that  I  could  hardly  keep  up  with  her.  She  showed  me 
her  little  bed,  and  the  chair  where  she  sat  at  dinner,  and 
the  carozzina  in  which  she  and  her  favourite  companions 
drew  each  other  along  a  walk  in  the  garden.  I  had 
brought  her  a  basket  of  sweetmeats,  and  before  eating 
any  of  them  she  gave  her  companions  and  each  of  the 
nuns  a  portion.  This  is  not  much  like  the  old  Allegra. 
I  asked  her  what  I  should  say  from  her  to  her  mamma, 
and  she  said : 

"  Che  mi  manda  un  bacio  e  un  bel  vestituro." 

"  E  come  vuoi  il  vestituro  sia  fatto  ?  " 

"  Tutto  di  seta  e  d'oro,"  was  her  reply. 

Her  predominant  foible  seems  the  love  of  distinction 
and  vanity,  and  this  is  a  plant  which  produces  good  or 
evil,  according  to  the  gardener's  skill.  I  then  asked  her 
what  I  should  say  to  papa?  "Che  venga  farmi  un  visitino 
e  che  porta  seco  la  mammina"  Before  I  went  away  she 
made  me  run  all  over  the  convent,  like  a  mad  thing. 
The  nuns,  who  were  half  in  bed,  were  ordered  to  hide 
themselves,  and  on  returning  Allegra  began  ringing  the 
23 


Allegra's  Scappature 

bell  which  calls  the  nuns  to  assemble.  The  tocsin  of 
the  convent  sounded,  and  it  required  all  the  efforts  of  the 
Prioress  to  prevent  the  spouses  of  God  from  rendering 
themselves,  dressed  or  undressed,  to  the  accustomed 
signal.  Nobody  scolded  her  for  these  scappature,  so  I 
suppose  she  is  well  treated,  so  far  as  temper  is  concerned. 
Her  intellect  is  not  much  cultivated.  She  knows  certain 
orazioni  by  heart,  and  talks  and  dreams  of  Paradiso  and 
all  sorts  of  things,  and  has  a  prodigious  list  of  saints, 
and  is  always  talking  of  the  Bambino.  This  will  do 
her  no  harm,  but  the  idea  of  bringing  up  so  sweet  a 
creature  in  the  midst  of  such  trash  till  sixteen ! 


24 


II 

THE   NEWS   BEARERS 

Charles  Dickens  emplous  the  pen  of  Boswell  "^ 

(To  Wilkie  Collins) 

LORD  WARDEN  HOTEL,  DOVER 
Friday  Evening,  May  24,  1861 

MY  DEAR  WILKIE,  — I  am  delighted  to  receive  so 
good  an  account  of  last  night,  and  have  no  doubt 
that  it  was  a  thorough  success.  Now  it  is  over,  I  may 
honestly  say  that  I  am  glad  you  were  (by  your  friendship) 
forced  into  the  Innings,  for  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  is  of 
immense  importance  to  a  public  man  in  our  way  to  have 
his  wits  at  his  tongue's  end.  Sir  (as  Dr.  Johnson  would 
have  said),  if  it  be  not  irrational  in  a  man  to  count  his 
feathered  bipeds  before  they  are  hatched,  we  will  con- 
jointly astonish  them  next  year.  Boswell:  Sir,  I  hardly 
understand  you.  Johnson :  Sir,  you  never  understand 
anything.  Boswell  (in  a  sprightly  manner)  :  Perhaps, 
Sir,  I  am  all  the  better  for  it.  Johnson  (savagely)  :  Sir, 
I  do  not  know  but  that  you  are.  There  is  Lord  Carlisle 
(smiling)  ;  he  never  understands  anything,  and  yet  the  dog's 
well  enough.  Then,  Sir,  there  is  Forster;  he  understands 
25 


Swift  in  Town 

many  things,  and  yet  the  fellow  is  fretful.  Again,  Sir, 
there  is  Dickens,  with  a  facile  way  with  him  —  like  Davy, 
Sir,  like  Davy  —  yet  I  am  told  that  the  man  is  lying  at  a 
hedge  ale-house  by  the  sea-shore  in  Kent,  as  long  as 
they  will  trust  him.  Bosivell:  But  there  are  no  hedges 
by  the  sea  in  Kent,  Sir.  Johnson-.  And  why  not,  Sir? 

Boswell  (at  a  loss):    I  don't  know,  Sir,  unless Johnson 

(thundering)  :  Let  us  have  no  unlesses,  Sir.  If  your  father 
had  never  said  "unless,"  he  would  never  have  begotten 
you,  Sir.  Boswell  (yielding)  :  Sir,  that  is  very  true. 

The  Dean  tells  Stella  all      ^>  ^>        ^> 

October  14,  1710 

IS  that  tobacco  at  the  top  of  the  paper,  or  what?  I  do 
not  remember  I  slobbered.  Lord,  I  dreamed  of 
Stella,  etc.,  so  confusedly  last  night,  and  that  we  saw 
Dean  Bolton  and  Sterne  go  into  a  shop ;  and  she  bid  me 
call  [them]  to  her,  and  they  proved  to  be  two  parsons  I 
knew  not ;  and  I  walked  without  till  she  was  shifting,  and 
such  stuff,  mixed  with  much  melancholy  and  uneasiness, 
and  things  not  as  they  should  be,  and  I  know  not  how: 
and  it  is  now  an  ugly  gloomy  morning.  —  At  night.  Mr. 
Addison  and  I  dined  with  Ned  Southwell,  and  walked  in 
the  Park;  and  at  the  Coffeehouse  I  found  a  letter  from 
the  Bishop  of  Clogher,  and  a  packet  from  MD.  I 
opened  the  bishop's  letter;  but  put  up  MD.'s  and 
visited  a  lady  just  come  to  town,  and  am  now  got  into 
bed,  and  going  to  open  your  little  letter :  and  God  send 
I  may  find  MD.  well,  and  happy,  and  merry,  and  that 
they  love  Presto  as  they  do  fires.  O,  I  will  not  open  it 
yet!  yes  I  will!  no  I  will  not!  I  am  going;  I  cannot 
stay  till  I  turn  over :  what  shall  I  do  ?  My  fingers  itch : 
and  I  now  have  it  in  my  left  hand ;  and  now  I  will  open  it 
26 


"  Directed  to  Mr.  Addison  " 

this  very  moment.  I  have  just  got  it,  and  am  cracking  the 
seal,  and  cannot  imagine  what  is  in  it ;  I  fear  only  some 
letter  from  a  bishop,  and  it  comes  too  late :  I  shall  employ 

nobody's  credit   but  my  own.     Well,  I  see  though 

Pshaw,  it  is  from  Sir  Andrew  Fountaine :  what,  another ! 
I  fancy  that  is  from  Mrs.  Barton ;  she  told  me  she  would 
write  to  me ;  but  she  writes  a  better  hand  than  this  :  I  wish 
you  would  inquire ;  it  must  be  at  Dawson's  office  at  the 
Castle.  I  fear  this  is  from  Patty  Rolt,  by  the  scrawl.  Well, 
I  will  read  MD.'s  letter.  Ah  no ;  it  is  from  poor  Lady 
Berkeley,  to  invite  me  to  Berkeley  Castle  this  winter ;  and 
now  it  grieves  my  heart :  she  says  she  hopes  my  lord 
is  in  a  fair  way  of  recovery :  poor  lady.  Well,  now  I 
go  to  MD.'s  letter:  faith,  it  is  all  right;  I  hoped  it  was 
wrong.  Your  letter,  N.  3,  that  I  have  now  received,  is  dated 
Sep.  26,  and  Manley's  letter,  that  I  had  five  days 
ago,  was  dated  Oct.  3,  that  is  a  fortnight's  difference : 
I  doubt  it  has  lain  in  Steele's  office,  and  he  forgot.  Well, 
there  is  an  end  of  that:  he  is  turned  out  of  his  place: 
and  you  must  desire  those  who  send  me  packets,  to 
enclose  them  in  a  paper,  directed  to  Mr.  Addison,  at 
St.  James1  Coffeehouse  :  not  common  letters,  but  packets  : 
the  Bishop  of  Clogher  may  mention  it  to  the  Archbishop 
when  he  sees  him.  As  for  your  letter,  it  makes  me  mad : 
flidikins,  I  have  been  the  best  boy  in  Christendom,  and 
you  come  with  your  two  eggs  a-penny.  —  Well :  but  stay,  I 
will  look  over  my  book :  adad,  I  think  there  was  a  chasm 
between  my  N.  2  and  N.  3.  Faith,  I  will  not  promise  to 
write  to  you  every  week ;  but  I  will  write  every  night,  and 
when  it  is  full  I  will  send  it ;  that  will  be  once  in  ten  days, 
and  that  will  be  often  enough ;  and  if  you  only  begin  to 
take  up  the  way  of  writing  to  Presto,  only  because  it  is 
Tuesday,  [or]  Monday  bedad,  it  will  grow  a  task;  but 
write  when  you  have  a  mind  —  no,  no,  no,  no,  no,  no,  no, 
27 


"To  dine  at  Mr.  Harley's" 

no,  —  agad,  agad,  agad,  agad,  agad,  agad ;  no  poor 
Stellakins.  Slids,  I  would  the  horse  were  in  your  — 
chamber.  Have  I  not  ordered  Parvisol  to  obey  your 
directions  about  him  ?  and  have  not  I  said  in  my  former 
letters,  that  you  may  pickle  him,  and  boil  him  if  you  will? 
What  do  you  trouble  me  about  your  horses  for?  Have 
I  anything  to  do  with  them!  Revolutions  a  hindrance  to 
me  in  my  business;  revolutions  —  to  me  in  my  business? 
if  it  were  not  for  the  revolutions  I  could  do  nothing  at  all ; 
and  now  I  have  all  hopes  possible,  though  one  is  certain 
of  nothing ;  but  to-morrow  I  am  to  have  an  answer,  and 
am  promised  an  effectual  one.  I  suppose  I  have  said 
enough  in  this  and  a  former  letter  how  I  stand  with  new 
people ;  ten  times  better  than  ever  I  did  with  the  old ; 
forty  times  more  caressed.  I  am  to  dine  to-morrow  at 
Mr.  Harley's ;  and  if  he  continues  as  he  has  begun,  no 
man  has  ever  been  better  treated  by  another. 

What  you  say  about  Stella's  mother,  I  have  spoken 
enough  to  it  already.  I  believe  she  is  not  in  town,  for  I 
have  not  yet  seen  her.  My  lampoon  is  cried  up  to  the 
skies ;  but  nobody  suspects  me  for  it,  except  Sir  Andrew 
Fountaine ;  at  least  they  say  nothing  of  it  to  me.  Did  I 
not  tell  you  of  a  great  man  who  received  me  very  coldly  ? 
that  is  he,  but  say  nothing;  it  was  only  a  little  revenge : 
I  will  remember  to  bring  it  over.  The  Bishop  of  Clogher 
has  smoked  my  Tatler,  about  shortening  of  words,  etc. 
But,  God  so  !  etc. 

Charles  Dickens  narrates  a  dream  x^*        ^>         x^> 

BROADSTAIRS,  KENT,  September  i,  1843 

MY  DEAR  FELTON,  — If  I  thought  it  in  the  nature 
of  things    that   you    and   I    could    ever  agree  on 
paper,  touching  a  certain  Chuzzlewitian  question  where- 
28 


"  Imaginary  Butchers  and  Bakers  " 

upon  Forster  tells  me  you  have  remarks  to  make,  I  should 
immediately  walk  into  the  same,  tooth  and  nail.  But  as 
I  don't,  I  won't.  Contenting  myself  with  the  prediction, 
that  one  of  these  years  and  days,  you  will  write  or  say  to 
me :  "  My  dear  Dickens,  you  were  right,  though  rough, 
and  did  a  world  of  good,  though  you  got  most  thoroughly 
hated  for  it."  To  which  I  shall  reply :  "  My  dear  Felton, 
I  looked  a  long  way  off  and  not  immediately  under  my 
nose."  ...  At  which  sentiment  you  will  laugh,  and  I 
shall  laugh  ;  and  then  (for  I  foresee  this  will  all  happen 
in  my  land)  we  shall  call  for  another  pot  of  porter  and 
two  or  three  dozens  of  oysters. 

Now,  don't  you  in  your  own  heart  and  soul  quarrel 
with  me  for  this  long  silence  ? 

Not  half  so  much  as  I  quarrel  with  myself,  I  know; 
but  if  you  could  read  half  the  letters  I  write  to  you  in 
imagination,  you  would  swear  by  me  for  the  best  of 
correspondents.  The  truth  is,  that  when  I  have  done 
my  morning's  work,  down  goes  my  pen,  and  from  that 
minute  I  feel  it  a  positive  impossibility  to  take  it  up  again, 
until  imaginary  butchers  and  bakers  wave  me  to  my  desk. 
I  walk  about  brimful  of  letters,  facetious  descriptions, 
touching  morsels,  and  pathetic  friendships,  but  can't  for 
the  soul  of  me  uncork  myself.  The  post-office  is  my  rock 
ahead.  My  average  number  of  letters  that  must  be 
written  every  day  is,  at  the  least,  a  dozen.  And  you 
could  no  more  know  what  I  was  writing  to  you  spiritually, 
from  the  perusal  of  the  bodily  thirteenth,  than  you  could 
tell  from  my  hat  what  was  going  on  in  my  head,  or  could 
read  my  heart  on  the  surface  of  my  flannel  waistcoat. 

This  is  a  little  fishing  place  ;  intensely  quiet ;  built  on  a 

cliff,  whereon  —  in  the  centre  of  a  tiny  semi-circular  bay  — 

our  house  stands ;  the  sea  rolling  and  dashing  under  the 

windows.     Seven  miles     out  are    the    Goodwin    Sands 

29 


Boz  Day  by  Day 

(you've  heard  of  the  Goodwin  Sands  ?)  whence  floating 
lights  perpetually  wink  after  dark,  as  if  they  were  carry- 
ing on  intrigues  with  the  servants.  Also  there  is  a  big 
lighthouse  called  the  North  Foreland  on  a  hill  behind 
the  village,  a  severe  parsonic  light,  which  reproves  the 
young  and  giddy  floaters,  and  stares  grimly  out  upon 
the  sea.  Under  the  cliff  are  rare  good  sands,  where  all 
the  children  assemble  every  morning  and  throw  up  im- 
possible fortifications,  which  the  sea  throws  down  again 
at  high  water.  Old  gentlemen  and  ancient  ladies  flirt 
after  their  own  manner  in  two  reading-rooms  and  on  a 
great  many  scattered  seats  in  the  open  air. 

Other  old  gentlemen  look  all  day  through  telescopes  and 
never  see  anything.  In  a  bay-window  in  a  one-pair  sits, 
from  nine  o'clock  to  one,  a  gentleman  with  rather  long 
hair  and  no  neck-cloth,  who  writes  and  grins  as  if  he 
thought  he  were  very  funny  indeed.  His  name  is  Boz. 
At  one  he  disappears,  and  presently  emerges  from  a 
bathing-machine,  and  may  be  seen  —  a  kind  of  salmon- 
coloured  porpoise  —  splashing  about  in  the  ocean.  After 
that  he  may  be  seen  in  another  bay-window  on  the 
ground  floor,  eating  a  strong  lunch ;  after  that,  walking 
a  dozen  miles  or  so,  or  lying  on  his  back  in  the  sand 
reading  a  book.  Nobody  bothers  him  unless  they  know 
he  is  disposed  to  be  talked  to ;  and  I  am  told  he  is  very 
comfortable  indeed.  He's  as  brown  as  a  berry,  and  they 
do  say  is  a  small  fortune  to  the  innkeeper  who  sells  beer 
and  cold  punch.  But  this  is  mere  rumour.  Sometimes 
he  goes  up  to  London  (eighty  miles,  or  so,  away),  and 
then  I'm  told  there  is  a  sound  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields 
at  night,  as  of  men  laughing,  together  with  a  clinking  of 
knives  and  forks  and  wine  glasses. 

I  never  shall  have  been  so  near  you  since  we  parted 
aboard  the  George  Washington  as  next  Tuesday.  Forster, 
30 


Maclise  and  Longfellow 

Maclise,  and  I,  and  perhaps  Stanfield,  are  then  going 
aboard  the  Cunard  steamer  at  Liverpool,  to  bid  Macready 
good-bye  and  bring  his  wife  away.  It  will  be  a  very 
hard  parting.  You  will  see  and  know  him,  of  course. 
We  gave  him  a  splendid  dinner  last  Saturday  at 
Richmond,  whereat  I  presided  with  my  accustomed 
grace.  He  is  one  of  the  noblest  fellows  in  the  world, 
and  I  would  give  a  great  deal  that  you  and  I  should  sit 
beside  each  other  to  see  him  play  Virginius,  Lear,  or 
Werner,  which  I  take  to  be,  every  way,  the  greatest  piece 
of  exquisite  perfection  that  his  lofty  art  is  capable  of 
attaining.  His  Macbeth,  especially  the  last  act,  is  a 
tremendous  reality ;  but  so  indeed  is  almost  everything 
he  does.  You  recollect,  perhaps,  that  he  was  the  guardian 
of  our  children  while  we  were  away.  I  love  him  dearly. . . . 
You  asked  me,  long  ago,  about  Maclise.  He  is  such  a 
wayward  fellow  in  his  subjects,  that  it  would  be  next  to 
impossible  to  write  such  an  article  as  you  were  thinking 
of  about  him.  I  wish  you  could  form  an  idea  of  his 
genius.  One  of  these  days  a  book  will  come  out,  Moorfs 
Irish  Melodies,  entirely  illustrated  by  him,  on  every  page. 
When  it  comes,  I'll  send  it  to  you.  You  will  have  some 
notion  of  him  then. 

He  is  in  great  favour  with  the  Queen,  and  paints  secret 
pictures  for  her  to  put  upon  her  husband's  table  on  the 
morning  of  his  birthday,  and  the  like.  But  if  he  has  a 
care,  he  will  leave  his  mark  on  more  enduring  things 
than  palace  walls. 

And  so  Longfellow  is  married.  I  remember  her  well, 
and  could  draw  her  portrait,  in  words,  to  the  life.  A  very 
beautiful  and  gentle  creature,  and  a  proper  love  for  a 
poet.  My  cordial  remembrances  and  congratulations. 
Do  they  live  in  the  house  where  we  breakfasted  ?  . . . 

I  very  often  dream  I  am  in  America  again;  but, 
31 


Christened  with  a  Toasting-Fork 

strange  to  say,  I  never  dream  of  you.  I  am  always 
endeavouring  to  get  home  in  disguise,  and  have-,  a 
dreary  sense  of  distance.  A  propos  of  dreams,  is  it  not 
a  strange  thing  if  writers  of  fiction  never  dream  of  their 
own  creations ;  recollecting,  I  suppose,  even  in  their 
dreams,,,  that  they  have  no  real  existence  ?  I  never 
dream  of  any  of  my  own  characters,  and  I  feel  it  so 
impossible  that  I  would  wager,  Scott  never  did  of  his, 
real  as  they  are.  I  had  a  good  piece  of  absurdity  in  my 
head  a  night  or  two  ago.  I  dreamed  that  somebody  was 
dead.  I  don't  know  who,  but  it's  not  to  the  purpose. 
It  was  a  private  gentleman,  or  a  particular  friend ;  and 
I  was  greatly  overcome  when  the  news  was  broken  to  me 
(very  delicately)  by  a  gentleman  in  a  cocked  hat,  top 
boots,  and  a  sheet.  Nothing  else.  "  Good  God!  "  I  said, 
"  is  he  dead  ? "  "  He  is  as  dead,  sir,1'  rejoined  the 
gentleman,  "  as  a  door-nail.  But  we  must  all  die,  Mr. 
Dickens,  sooner  or  later,  my  dear  sir."  "  Ah ! "  I  said, 
"Yes,  to  be  sure.  Very  true.  But  what  did  he  die  of?" 
The  gentleman  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  said  in  a 
voice  broken  by  emotion :  "  He  christened  his  youngest 
child,  Sir,  with  a  toasting  fork.1'  I  never  in  my  life  was  so 
affected  as  at  his  having  fallen  a  victim  to  this  complaint. 
It  carried  a  conviction  to  my  mind  that  he  never  could 
have  recovered.  I  knew  that  it  was  the  most  interesting 
and  fatal  malady  in  the  world ;  and  I  wrung  the  gentle- 
man^ hand  in  a  convulsion  of  respectful  admiration,  for 
I  felt  that  this  explanation  did  equal  honour  to  his  head 
and  heart. 

What  do  you  think  of  Mrs.  Gamp?  And  how  do  you 
like  the  undertaker?  I  have  a  fancy  that  they  are  in 
your  way.  Oh  heaven!  such  green  woods  as  I  was 
rambling  among,  down  in  Yorkshire,  when  I  was  getting 
that  done  last  July!  For  days  and  weeks  we  never  saw 
32 


Midnight  Frolics 

the  sky  but  through  green  boughs ;  and  all  day  long  I 
cantered  over  such  soft  moss  and  turf,  that  the  horse's 
feet  scarcely  made  a  sound  upon  it.  We  have  some 
friends  in  that  part  of  the  country  (close  to  Castle 
Howard,  where  Lord  Morpeth's  father  dwells  in  state, 
in  his  park  indeed),  who  are  the  jolliest  of  the  jolly, 
keeping  a  big  old  country  house,  with  an  ale-cellar  some- 
thing larger  than  a  reasonable  church,  and  everything, 
like  Goldsmith's  bear,  dances  "  in  a  concatenation  accord- 
ingly." Just  the  place  for  you,  Felton  ! 

We  performed  some  madnesses  there  in  the  way  of 
forfeits,  picnics,  rustic  games,  inspections  of  ancient 
monasteries  at  midnight,  when  the  moon  was  shining, 
that  would  have  gone  to  your  heart,  and,  as  Mr.  Weller 
says,  "  come  out  on  the  other  side."  .  .  .  Write  soon,  my 
dear  Felton ;  and  if  I  write  to  you  less  often  than  I  would, 
oelieve  that  my  affectionate  heart  is  with  you  always. 
Love  and  regards  to  all  friends,  from  yours  ever  and  ever, 
very  faithfully  yours. 


Thackeray  describes  his  Parisian  adventures  to  Mrs. 
Brookfield         ^>         ^         ^>         ^         ^> 

I  WENT  to  see  my  old  haunts  when  I  came  to  Paris  13 
years  ago,  and  made  believe  to  be  a  painter,  — 
just  after  I  was  ruined  and  before  I  fell  in  love  and  took  to 
marriage  and  writing.  It  was  a  very  jolly  time,  I  was  as 
poor  as  Job  and  sketched  away  most  abominably,  but 
pretty  contented ;  and  we  used  to  meet  in  each  other's 
little  rooms  and  talk  about  art  and  smoke  pipes  and  drink 
bad  brandy  and  water — That  awful  habit  still  remains, 
but  where  is  art,  that  dear  mistress  whom  I  loved,  though 
in  a  very  indolent,  capricious  manner,  but  with  a  real 
D  33 


The  Venus  of  Milo 

sincerity  ?  I  see  her  far,  very  far  off.  I  jilted  her,  I 
know  it  very  well;  but  you  see  it  was  Fate  ordained  that 
marriage  should  never  take  place ;  and  forced  me  to 
take  on  with  another  lady,  two  other  ladies,  three  other 
ladies ;  I  mean  the  three  and  my  wife,  etc.,  etc. 

Well,  you  are  very  good  to  listen  to  all  this  egotistic 
prattle,  chere  Soeur,  si  douce  et  si  bonne. 

I  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  my  loves,  seeing 
that  all  three  are  quite  lawful.  Did  you  go  to  see  my 
people  yesterday?  Some  day  when  his  reverence  is 
away,  will  you  have  the  children?  And  not,  if  you  please, 
be  so  vain  as  to  fancy  that  you  can't  amuse  them  or  that 
they  will  be  bored  in  your  home.  They  must  and  shall 
be  fond  of  you,  if  you  please.  Alfred's  open  mouth  as  he 
looked  at  the  broken  bottle  and  spilt  wine  must  have  been 
a  grand  picture  of  agony.  I  couldn't  find  the  lecture 
room  at  the  Institute,  so  I  went  to  the  Louvre  instead, 
and  took  a  feast  with  the  statues  and  pictures.  The 
Venus  de  Milo  is  the  grandest  figure  of  figures.  The 
wave  of  the  lines  of  the  figure,  whenever  seen,  fills  my 
senses  with  pleasure.  What  is  it  which  so  charms, 
satisfies  one,  in  certain  lines?  O!  the  man  who 
achieved  that  statue  was  a  beautiful  Genius.  I  have  been 
sitting  thinking  of  it  these  10  minutes  in  a  delighted 
sensuous  rumination.  The  colours  of  the  Titian  pictures 
comfort  one's  eyes  similarly ;  and  after  these  feasts, 
which  wouldn't  please  my  lady  very  much,  I  daresay, 
being,  I  should  think,  too  earthly  for  you,  I  went  and  looked 
at  a  picture  I  usedn't  to  care  much  for  in  old  days,  an 
angel  saluting  a  Virgin  and  Child  by  Pietro  Cortona,  —  a 
sweet  smiling  angel  with  a  lily  in  her  hands,  looking  so 
tender  and  gentle  I  wished  that  instant  to  make  a  copy 
of  it,  and  do  it  beautifully,  which  I  can't,  and  present  it 
to  somebody  on  Lady-day.  There  now,  just  fancy  it  is 
34 


"  Pray  God  keep  us  simple " 

done,  and  presented  in  a  neat  compliment,  and  hung  up  in 
your  room —  a  pretty  piece  —  dainty  and  devotional  ?  —  I 

drove  about  with ,  and  wondered  at  her  more  and  more. 

—  She  is  come  to  "  my  dearest  William "  now :  though 
she  doesn't  care  a  fig  for  me.  She  told  me  astonishing 
things,  showed  me  a  letter  in  which  every  word  was  true, 
and  which  was  a  fib  from  beginning  to  end  ;  —  a  Miracle 
of  Deception  ;  —  flattered,  fondled  and  coaxed  —  0 1  she 
was  worth  coming  to  Paris  for! 

Pray  God  keep  us  simple.     I  have   never  looked  at 

anything  in  my  life  which  has  so  amazed  me.  Why,  this 

is  as  good  almost  as  if  I  had  you  to  talk  to.  Let  us  go 
out  and  have  another  walk. 


Horace  Walpole  describes  Madame  du  Deffand      ^> 
(To  George  Montagu,  Esq.) 

PARIS,  September  7,  1769 
[Y  dear    old    friend     [Madame    du    Deffand]    was 


charmed  with  your  mention  of  her,  and  made  me 
vow  to  return  you  a  thousand  compliments.  She  cannot 
conceive  why  you  will  not  step  hither  —  feeling  in  herself 
no  difference  between  the  spirits  of  twenty-three  and 
seventy-three,  she  thinks  there  is  no  impediment  to  doing 
whatever  one  will,  but  the  want  of  eyesight.  If  she  had 
that  I  am  persuaded  no  consideration  would  prevent  her 
making  me  a  visit  at  Strawberry  Hill.  She  makes  songs 
sings  them,  remembers  all  that  ever  were  made;  and, 
having  lived  from  the  most  agreeable  to  the  most 
reasoning  age,  has  all  that  was  amiable  in  the  last,  all 
that  is  sensible  in  this,  without  the  vanity  of  the 
former,  or  the  pedant  impertinence  of  the  latter.  I  have 
35 


Madame  du  Deffand 

heard  her  dispute  with  all  sorts  of  people,  on  all  sorts  of 
subjects,  and  never  knew  her  in  the  wrong.  She  humbles 
the  learned,  sets  right  their  disciples,  and  finds  conversa- 
tion for  everybody.  Affectionate  as  Madame  de  Sevigne', 
she  has  none  of  her  prejudices,  but  a  more  universal  taste ; 
and,  with  the  most  delicate  frame,  her  spirits  hurry  her 
through  a  life  of  fatigue  that  would  kill  me,  if  I  was  to 
continue  here.  If  we  return  by  one  in  the  morning  from 
suppers  in  the  country,  she  proposes  driving  to  the 
Boulevard,  or  to  the  Foire  St.  Ovide,  because  it  is  too 
early  to  go  to  bed.  I  had  great  difficulty  last  night  to 
persuade  her,  though  she  was  not  well,  not  to  sit  up  till 
between  two  and  three  for  the  Comet ;  for  which  purpose 
she  had  appointed  an  astronomer  to  bring  his  telescopes 
to  the  President  Renault's,  as  she  thought  it  would 
amuse  me.  In  short,  her  goodness  to  me  is  so  excessive, 
that  I  feel  unashamed  at  producing  my  withered  person 
in  a  round  of  diversions,  which  I  have  quitted  at  home. 
I  tell  a  story :  I  do  feel  ashamed,  and  sigh  to  be  in  my 
quiet  castle  and  cottage.;  but  it  costs  me  many  a  pang, 
when  I  reflect  that  I  shall  probably  never  have  resolution 
enough  to  take  another  journey  to  see  this  best  and 
sincerest  of  friends,  who  loves  me  as  much  as  my  mother 
did!  but  it  is  idle  to  look  forward  —  what  is  next  year?  — 
a  bubble  that  may  burst  for  her  or  me,  before  even  the 
flying  year  can  hurry  to  the  end  of  its  almanack ! 

To  form  plans  and  projects  in  such  a  precarious  life 
as  this,  resembles  the  enchanted  castles  of  fairy  legends, 
in  which  every  gate  was  guarded  by  giants,  dragons,  etc. 
Death  or  diseases  bar  every  portal  through  which  we 
mean  to  pass ;  and,  though  we  may  escape  them  and 
reach  the  last  chamber,  what  a  wild  adventurer  is  he  that 
centres  his  hopes  at  the  end  of  such  an  avenue!  I  sit 
contented  with  the  beggars  at  the  threshold,  and  never  pro- 

36 


Diverting  the  Angels 

pose  going  on,  but  as  the  gates  open  of  themselves. 
The  weather  here  is  quite  sultry,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
one  can  send  to  the  corner  of  the  street  and  buy  better 
peaches  than  all  our  expense  in  kitchen  gardens  produces. 
Lord  and  Lady  Dacre  are  a  few  doors  from  me,  having 
started  from  Tunbridge  more  suddenly  than  I  did  from 
Strawberry  Hill,  but  on  a  more  unpleasant  motive.  My 
lord  was  persuaded  to  come  and  try  a  new  physician.  His 
faith  is  greater  than  mine  !  but,  poor  man  !  can  one 
wonder  that  he  is  willing  to  believe  ?  My  lady  has  stood 
her  shock,  and  I  do  not  doubt  will  get  over  it. 

Adieu,  my  t'other  dear  old  friend  !  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
I  see  you  almost  as  seldom  as  I  do  Madame  du  Deffand. 
However  it  is  comfortable  to  reflect  that  we  have  not 
changed  to  each  other  for  some  five-and-thirty  years,  and 
neither  you  nor  I  haggle  about  naming  so  ancient  a  term. 
I  made  a  visit  yesterday  to  the  Abbess  of  Panthemont, 
General  Ogelthorpe's  niece,  and  no  chicken.  I  inquired 
after  her  mother,  Madame  de  Mezieres,  and  thought  I 
might,  to  a  spiritual  votary  to  immortality,  venture  to  say 
that  her  mother  must  be  very  old ;  she  interrupted  me  . 
tartly,  and  said,  no,  her  mother  had  been  married  extremely 
young.  Do  but  think  of  it  seeming  important  to  a  saint 
to  sink  a  wrinkle  of  her  own  through  an  iron  grate  ! 
Oh  !  we  are  ridiculous  animals ;  and  if  angels  have  any 
fun  in  them,  how  we  must  divert  them. 

Charles  Lamb  sends  news  to  China     ^>      ^>      ^> 

January  2,  1810 
Mary  sends  her  love. 

DEAR  MANNING,  —When  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  was 
in  lodgings.     I  am  now  in  chambers,  No.  4,  Inner 
Temple  Lane,  where  I  should  be  happy  to  see  you  any 
37 


Lamb  in  the  Temple 

evening.  Bring  any  of  your  friends,  the  Mandarins,  with 
you.  I  have  two  sitting-rooms :  I  call  them  so  par  ex- 
cellence, for  you  may  stand,  or  loll,  or  lean,  or  try  any 
posture  in  them ;  but  they  are  best  for  sitting ;  not 
squatting  down  Japanese  fashion,  but  the  more  decorous 
use  of  the  posteriors  which  European  usage  has  con- 
secrated. I  have  two  of  these  rooms  on  the  third  floor, 
and  five  sleeping,  cooking,  etc.,  rooms,  on  the  fourth 
floor.  In  my  best  room  is  a  choice  collection  of  the 
works  of  Hogarth,  an  English  painter  of  some  humour. 
In  my  next  best  are  shelves  containing  a  small  but 
well-chosen  library.  My  best  room  commands  a 
court,  in  which  there  are  trees  and  a  pump,  the  water 
of  which  is  excellent  —  cold  with  brandy,  and  not  very 
insipid  without.  Here  I  hope  to  set  up  my  rest,  and 
not  quit  till  Mr.  Powell,  the  undertaker,  gives  me 
notice  that  I  may  have  possession  of  my  last  lodging. 
He  lets  lodgings  for  single  gentlemen.  I  sent  you  a 
parcel  of  books  by  my  last,  to  give  you  some  idea  of 
the  state  of  European  literature.  There  comes  with 
this  two  volumes,  done  up  as  letters,  of  minor  poetry, 
a  sequel  to  Mrs.  Leicester •;  the  best  you  may  suppose 
mine ;  the  next  best  are  my  coadjutors ;  you  may  amuse 
yourself  in  guessing  them  out ;  but  I  must  tell  you  mine 
are  but  one-third  in  quantity  of  the  whole.  So  much 
for  a  very  delicate  subject.  It  is  hard  to  speak  of  one's 
self,  etc.  Holcroft  had  finished  his  life  when  I  wrote  to 
you,  and  Hazlitt  has  since  finished  his  life  —  I  do  not  mean 
his  own  life,  but  he  has  finished  a  life  of  Holcroft,  which 
is  going  to  press.  Tuthill  is  Dr.  Tuthill.  I  continue 
Mr.  Lamb.  I  have  published  a  little  book  for  children 
on  titles  of  honour:  and  to  give  them  some  idea  of 
the  difference  of  rank  and  gradual  rising,  I  have  made 
a  little  scale,  supposing  myself  to  receive  the  following 
38 


Degrees  of  Honour 

various  accessions  of  dignity  from  the  king,  who  is  the 
fountain  .of  honour — As  at  first,  i,  Mr.  C.  Lamb;  2, 
C.  Lamb,  Esq. ;  3,  Sir  C.  Lamb,  Bart. ;  4,  Baron  Lamb 
of  Stamford ; x  5,  Viscount  Lamb  ;  6,  Earl  Lamb ;  7, 
Marquis  Lamb ;  8,  Duke  Lamb.  It  would  look  like 
quibbling  to  carry  it  on  further,  and  especially  as  it  is 
not  necessary  for  children  to  go  beyond  the  ordinary 
titles  of  sub-regal  dignity  in  our  own  country,  otherwise 
I  have  sometimes  in  my  dreams  imagined  myself  still 
advancing,  as  Qth,  King  Lamb ;  loth,  Emperor  Lamb ; 
nth,  Pope  Innocent,  higher  than  which  is  nothing  but 
the  Lamb  of  God.  Puns  I  have  not  made  many  (nor 
punch  much),  since  the  date  of  my  last;  one  I  cannot 
help  relating.  A  constable  in  Salisbury  Cathedral  was 
telling  me  that  eight  people  dined  at  the  top  of  the 
spire  of  the  cathedral ;  upon  which  I  remarked,  that 
they  must  be  very  sharp-set.  But  in  general  I  culti- 
vate the  reasoning  part  of  my  mind  more  than  the 
imaginative.  Do  you  know  Kate  ********  *4 
I  am  stuffed  out  so  with  eating  turkey  for  dinner, 
and  another  turkey  for  supper  yesterday  (turkey  in 
Europe  and  turkey  in  Asia),  that  I  can't  jog  on.  It 
is  New-Year  here.  That  is,  it  was  New- Year  half 
a-year  back,  when  I  was  writing  this.  Nothing 
puzzles  me  more  than  time  and  space,  and  yet  nothing 
puzzles  me  less,  for  I  never  think  about  them.  The 
Persian  ambassador  is  the  principal  thing  talked  of 
now.  I  sent  some  people  to  see  him  worship  the  sun 
on  Primrose  Hill  at  half  past  six  in  the  morning, 
28th  November;  but  he  did  not  come,  which  makes 
me  think  the  old  fire-worshippers  are  a  sect  almost 
extinct  in  Persia.  Have  you  trampled  on  the  Cross 

1  Where  my  family  come  from.      I  have  chosen  that  if  ever  I 
should  have  my  choice. 

39 


Jew,  Gentleman,  and  Angel 

yet  ?  The  Persian  ambassadors  name  is  ,Shaw  Ali 
Mirza.  The  common  people  call  him  Shaw  Nonsense. 
While  I  think  of  it,  I  have  put  three  letters  besides 
my  own  three  into  the  Indian  post  for  you,  from  your 
brother,  sister,  and  some  gentleman  whose  name  I 
forget.  Will  they,  have  they,  did  they,  come  safe? 
The  distance  you  are  at,  cuts  up  tenses  by  the  root. 
I  think  you  said  you  did  not  know  Kate  *********. 
I  express  her  by  nine  stars,  though  she  is  but  one,  but 

if  ever  one    star   differed    from   another    in    glory . 

You  must  have  seen  her  at  her  father's.  Try  and 
remember  her.  Coleridge  is  bringing  out  a  paper  in 
weekly  numbers,  called  the  Friend,  which  I  would  send, 
if  I  could ;  but  the  difficulty  I  had  in  getting  the  packets 
of  books  out  to  you  before  deters  me ;  and  you'll  want 
something  new  to  read  when  you  come  home.  It  is 
chiefly  intended  to  puff  off  Wordsworth's  poetry;  but 
there  are  some  noble  things  in  it  by  the  by.  Except 
Kate,  I  have  had  no  vision  of  excellence  this  year,  and 
she  passed  by  like  the  queen  on  her  coronation  day ; 
you  don't  know  whether  you  saw  her  or  not.  Kate  is 
fifteen :  I  go  about  moping,  and  sing  the  old  pathetic 
ballad  I  used  to  like  in  my  youth  — 

"  She's  sweet  Fifteen, 
I'm  one  year  more" 

Mrs.  Bland  sung  it  in  boy's  clothes  the  first  time  I 
heard  it.  I  sometimes  think  the  lower  notes  in  my  voice 
are  like  Mrs.  Eland's.  That  glorious  singer  Braham, 
one  of  my  lights,  is  fled.  He  was  for  a  season.  He 
was  a  rare  composition  of  the  Jew,  the  gentleman,  and 
the  angel,  yet  all  these  elements  mixed  up  so  kindly  in 
him,  that  you  could  not  tell  which  predominated ;  but 
he  is  gone,  and  one  Phillips  is  engaged  instead.  Kate 
40 


Jokes  and  Friends 

is  vanished,  but  Miss  B******JS  always  to  be 
met  with  ! 

"  Queens  drop  away,  while  blue-legg'd  Maukin  thrives ; 
And  courtly  Mildred  dies,  while  country  Madge  survives." 

That  is  not  my  poetry,  but  Quarles's;  but  haven't  you 
observed  that  the  rarest  things  are  the  least  obvious  ? 
Don't  show  anybody  the  names  in  this  letter.  I  write 
confidentially,  and  wish  this  letter  to  be  considered  as 
private.  Hazlitt  has  written  a  grammar  for  Godwin ; 
Godwin  sells  it  bound  up  with  a  treatise  of  his  own  on 
language,  but  the  grey  mare  is  the  better  horse.  I  don't 
allude  to  Mrs.  Godwin,  but  to  the  word  grammar,  which 
comes  near  to  grey  mare,  if  you  observe,  in  sound. 
That  figure  is  called  paranomasia  in  Greek.  I  am 
sometimes  happy  in  it.  An  old  woman  begged  of  me 
for  charity.  "  Ah  !  sir,"  said  she,  "  I  have  seen  better 
days ; "  "  So  have  I,  good  woman,"  I  replied ;  but  I 
meant  literally,  days  not  so  rainy  and  overcast  as  that 
on  which  she  begged :  she  meant  more  prosperous  days. 
Dr.  Dawe  is  made  associate  of  the  Royal  Academy. 
By  what  law  of  association  I  can't  guess.  Mrs.  Holcroft, 
Miss  Holcroft,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Godwin,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hazlitt,  Mrs.  Martin  and  Louisa,  Mrs.  Lum,  Capt. 
Burney,  Mrs.  Burney,  Martin  Burney,  Mr.  Rickman, 
Mrs.  Rickman,  Dr.  Stoddart,  William  Dollin,  Mr. 
Thompson,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Norris,  Mr.  Fenwick,  Mrs. 
Fenwick,  Miss  Fenwick,  a  man  that  saw  you  at  our 
house  one  day,  and  a  lady  that  heard  me  speak  of  you ; 
Mrs.  Buffam  that  heard  Hazlitt  mention  you,  Dr.  Tuthill, 
Mrs.  Tuthill,  Colonel  Harwood,  Mrs.  Harwood,  Mr. 
Collier,  Mrs.  Collier,  Mr.  Sutton,  Nurse,  Mr.  Fell,  Mrs. 
Fell,  Mr.  Marshall,  are  very  well,  and  occasionally  in- 
quire after  you. 

41 


Boz  and  the  Wizard 

Charles  Dickens  chronicles  the  proceedings  of  four 
Eton  boys         ^>        -^        ^>        *^        ^> 

BROADSTAIRS,  KENT,  July  11,  1851 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  WATSON,  — I  am  so  desperately 
indignant  with  you  for  writing  me  that  short 
apology  for  a  note,  and  pretending  to  suppose  that  under 
any  circumstances  I  could  fail  to  read  with  interest  any- 
thing you  wrote  to  me,  that  I  have  more  than  half  a  mind 
to  inflict  a  regular  letter  upon  you.  If  I  were  not  the 
gentlest  of  men  I  should  do  it ! 

Poor  dear  Haldimand,  I  have  thought  of  him  so 
often.  That  kind  of  decay  is  so  inexpressibly  affecting 
and  piteous  to  me,  that  I  have  no  words  to  express  my. 
compassion  and  sorrow.  When  I  was  at  Abbotsford,  I  saw 
in  a  vile  glass  case  the  last  clothes  Scott  wore.  Among 
them  an  old  white  hat,  which  seemed  to  be  tumbled  and 
bent  and  broken  by  the  uneasy,  purposeless  wandering, 
hither  and  thither,  of  his  heavy  head.  It  so  embodied 
Lockharfs  pathetic  description  of  him  when  he  tried  to 
write,  and  laid  down  his  pen  and  cried,  that  it  associated 
itself  in  my  mind  with  broken  powers  and  mental 
weakness  from  that  hour.  I  fancy  Haldimand  in  such 
another,  going  listlessly  about  that  beautiful  place,  and 
remembering  the  happy  hours  we  have  passed  with  him, 
and  his  goodness  and  truth,  I  think  what  a  dream  we 
live  in,  until  it  seems  for  the  moment  the  saddest  dream 
that  ever  was  dreamed.  Pray  tell  us  if  you  hear  more 
of  him.  We  really  loved  him. 

To  go  to  the  opposite  side  of  life,  let  me  tell  you  that 
a  week  or  so  ago  I  took  Charley  and  three  of  his 
schoolfellows  down  the  river  gipsying.  I  secured  the 
services  of  Charley's  godfather  (an  old  friend  of  mine, 
and  a  noble  fellow  with  boys),  and  went  down  to  Slough, 
42 


"  Mahogany  " 

accompanied  by  two  immense  hampers  from  Fortnum 
and  Mason,  on  (I  believe)  the  wettest  morning  ever  seen 
out  of  the  tropics. 

It  cleared  before  we  got  to  Slough ;  but  the  boys,  who 
had  got  up  at  four  (we  being  due  at  eleven),  had  horrible 
misgivings  that  we  might  not  come,  in  consequence 
of  which  we  saw  them  looking  into  the  carriages  before 
us,  all  face.  They  seemed  to  have  no  bodies  whatever, 
but  to  be  all  face ;  their  countenances  lengthened  to  that 
surprising  extent.  When  they  saw  us  the  faces  shut  up 
as  if  they  were  upon  strong  springs,  and  their  waistcoats 
developed  themselves  in  the  usual  places.  When  the 
first  hamper  came  out  of  the  luggage-van,  I  was  con- 
scious of  their  dancing  behind  the  guard ;  when  the 
second  came  out  with  bottles  in  it,  they  all  stood  wildly 
on  one  leg.  We  then  got  a  couple  of  flies  to  drive  to  the 
boat-house.  I  put  them  in  the  first,  but  they  couldn't 
sit  still  a  moment,  and  were  perpetually  flying  up  and 
down  like  the  toy  figures  in  the  sham  snuff-boxes.  In 
this  order  we  went  on  to  "Tom  Brown's,  the  tailor's," 
where  they  all  dressed  in  aquatic  costume,  and  then  to 
the  boat-house,  where  they  all  cried  in  shrill  chorus  for 
"Mahogany"  —  a  gentleman  so  called  by  reason  of  his 
sunburnt  complexion,  a  waterman  by  profession.  (He 
was  likewise  called  during  the  day  "  Hog  "  and  "  Hogany," 
and  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  any  proper  name 
whatsoever.)  We  embarked,  the  sun  shining  now,  in  a 
galley  with  a  striped  awning,  which  I  had  ordered  for  the 
purpose,  and  all  rowing  hard,  went  down  the  river.  We 
dined  in  a  field;  what  I  suffered  for  fear  those  boys 
should  get  drunk,  the  struggles  I  underwent  in  a  contest 
of  feeling  between  hospitality  and  prudence,  must  ever 
remain  untold.  I  feel,  even  now,  old  with  the  anxiety  of 
that  tremendous  hour.  They  were  very  good,  however, 
43 


Very  Wet  Wet-bobs 

The  speech  of  one  became  thick,  and  his  eyes  too  like 
lobsters'  to  be  comfortable,  but  only  temporarily.  He 
recovered  and  I  suppose  outlived  the  salad  he  took.  I 
have  heard  nothing  to  the  contrary,  and  I  imagine  I 
should  have  been  implicated  on  the  inquest  if  there  had 
been  one.  We  had  tea  and  rashers  of  bacon  at  a  public- 
house,  and  came  home,  the  last  five  or  six  miles  in  a 
prodigious  thunder-storm.  This  was  the  great  success  of 
the  day,  which  they  certainly  enjoyed  more  than  anything 
else.  The  dinner  had  been  great,  and  Mahogany  had 
informed  them,  after  a  bottle  of  light  champagne,  that 
he  never  would  come  up  the  river  "  with  ginger  company  " 
any  more.  But  the  getting  so  completely  wet  through 
was  the  culminating  part  of  the  entertainment.  You 
never  in  your  life  saw  such  objects  as  they  were;  and 
their  perfect  unconsciousness  that  it  was  at  all  advisable 
to  go  home  and  change,  or  that  there  was  anything  to 
prevent  their  standing  at  the  station  two  mortal  hours 
to  see  me  off,  was  wonderful.  As  to  getting  them  to  their 
dames  with  any  sort  of  sense  that  they  were  damp,  I 
abandoned  the  idea.  I  thought  it  a  success  when  they 
went  down  the  street  as  civilly  as  if  they  were  just  up 
and  newly  dressed,  though  they  really  looked  as  if  you 
could  have  rubbed  them  to  rags  with  a  touch,  like 
saturated  curl-paper. 

I  am  sorry  you  have  not  been  able  to  see  our  play, 
which  I  suppose  you  won't  now,  for  I  take  it  you  are  not 
going  on  Monday,  the  twenty-first,  our  last  night  in 
town  ?  It  is  worth  seeing,  not  for  the  getting  up  (which 
modesty  forbids  me  to  approve),  but  for  the  little  bijou 
it  is,  in  the  scenery,  dresses  and  appointments. 

They  are  such  as  never  can  be  got  together  again, 
because  such  men  as  Stanfield,  Roberts,  Grieve,  Haghe, 
Egg  and  others  never  can  be  again  combined  in  such 
44 


Strayed   Little  Revellers 

a  work.  Everything  has  been  done  at  its  best  from 
all  sorts  of  authorities,  and  it  is  really  very  beautiful 
to  look  at. 

I  find  I  am  "  used  up "  by  the  Exhibition.  I  don't 
say  "  there  is  nothing  in  it "  —  there's  too  much.  I  have 
only  been  twice ;  so  many  things  bewildered  me.  I 
have  a  natural  horror  of  sights,  and  the  fusion  of  so 
many  sights  in  one  has  not  decreased  it. 

I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  seen  anything  but  the 
fountain  and  perhaps  the  Amazon.  It  is  a  dreadful 
thing  to  be  obliged  to  be  false,  but  when  anyone  says, 

"Have  you  seen ?"  I  say  "Yes,"  because  if  I  don't, 

I  know  he'll  explain  it,  and  I  can't  bear  that.     took 

all  the  school  one  day.  The  school  was  composed  of 
a  hundred  "infants,"  who  got  among  the  horses'  legs 
in  crossing  to  the  main  entrance  from  the  Kensington 
Gate,  and  came  reeling  out  from  between  the  wheels 
of  coaches  undisturbed  in  mind.  They  were  clinging 
to  horses,  I  am  told,  all  over  the  park.  When  they 
were  collected  and  added  up  by  the  frantic  monitors, 
they  were  all  right.  They  were  then  regaled  with  cake, 
etc.,  and  went  tottering  and  staring  all  over  the  place ; 
the  greater  part  wetting  their  forefingers  and  drawing 
a  wavy  pattern  on  every  accessible  object.  One  infant 
strayed.  He  was  not  missed.  Ninety  and  nine  were 
taken  home,  supposed  to  be  the  whole  collection,  but 
this  particular  infant  went  to  Hammersmith.  He  was 
found  by  the  police  at  night,  going  round  and  round 
the  turnpike,  which  he  still  supposed  to  be  a  part  of 
the  Exhibition.  He  had  the  same  opinion  of  the  police, 
also  of  Hammersmith  workhouse,  where  he  passed  the 
night.  When  his  mother  came  for  him  in  the  morning, 
he  asked  when  it  would  be  over?  It  was  a  great  Exhibi- 
tion, he  said,  but  he  thought  it  long. 
45 


Combe  Florey  en  fete 

As  I  begin  to  have  a  foreboding  that  you  will  think 
the  same  of  this  act  of  vengeance  of  mine,  this  present 
letter,  I  shall  make  an  end  of  it  with  my  heartiest  and 
most  loving  remembrances  to  Watson.  I  would  have 
liked  him  of  all  things  to  have  been  in  the  Eton  expedi- 
tion, tell  him,  and  to  have  heard  a  song  (by-the-bye,  I 
have  forgotten  that)  sung  in  the  thunder-storm,  solos  by 
Charley,  chorus  by  the  friends,  describing  the  career 
of  a  booby  who  was  plucked  at  College,  every  verse 
ending  — 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig  what  the  people  may  think, 
But  what  WILL  the  governor  say !  " 

which  was  shouted  with  a  deferential  jollity  towards  myself, 
as  a  governor  who  had  that  day  done  a  creditable  action, 
and  proved  himself  worthy  of  all  confidence.  —  Ever,  dear 
Mrs.  Watson,  most  sincerely  yours. 

The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  tells  Mrs.  Grote  everything 
COMBE  FLOREY,  December  20,  1840 

I  AM  improved  in  lumbago,  but  still  less  upright  than 
Aristides.    Our  house   is   full  of  beef,  beer,  young 
children,  newspapers,  libels,  and  mince-pies,  and  life  goes 
on  very  well,  except  that  I  am  often  reminded  I  am  too 

near  the  end  of  it.     I  have  been   trying 's  Lectures 

on  the  French  Revolution,  which  I  could  not  get  on 
with,  and  am  reading  Thiers,  which  I  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  lay  down.  is  long  and  feeble  ;  and  though 

you  are  tolerably  sure  he  will  be  dull,  you  are  not 
equally  sure  he  will  be  right.  We  are  covered  with  snow, 
but  utterly  ignorant  of  what  cold  is,  as  are  all  natural 
philosophers. 


A  Threat  of  Baronets 

What  a  remarkable  woman  she  must  be,  that  Mrs. 
Grote!  she  uses  the  word  "thereto"  Why  use  anti- 
quated forms  of  expression?  Why  not  wear  antiquated 
caps  and  shoes?  Of  all  women  living,  you  least  want 
these  distinctions. 

I  join  you  sincerely  in  your  praise  of ;  she  is  beauti- 
ful, she  is  clear  of  envy,  hatred,  and  malice,  she  is  very 
clear  of  prejudices,  she  has  a  regard  for  me. 

It  will  be  a  great  baronet  season,  —  a  year  of  the 
Bloody  Hand.  I  know  three  more  baronets  I  can  intro- 
duce you  to,  and  four  or  five  knights ;  but,  I  take  it, 
the  mock-turtle  of  knights  will  not  go  down.  I  see  how 
it  will  end :  Grote  will  be  made  a  baronet ;  and  if  he  is 
not,  I  will.  The  Ministers,  who  would  not  make  me  a 
bishop,  can't  refuse  to  make  me  a  baronet.  I  remain 
always  your  attached  friend, 

SYDNEY  SMITH 

Horace  Walpole  keeps  George  Montagu  informed  ^> 

ARLINGTON  STREET,  December  16,  1764 

AS  I  have  not  read  in  the  paper  that  you  died  lately 
at  Greatworth,  in  Northamptonshire,  nor  have  met 
with  any  Montagu  or  Trevor  in  mourning,  I  conclude  you 
are  living ;  I  send  this,  however,  to  inquire,  and,  if  you 
should  happen  to  be  departed,  hope  your  executor  will  be 
so  kind  as  to  burn  it. 

Though  you  do  not  seem  to  have  the  same  curiosity 
about  my  existence,  you  may  gather  from  my  handwriting 
that  I  am  still  in  being ;  which  being  perhaps  full  as  much 
as  you  want  to  know  of  me,  I  will  trouble  you  with  no 
further  particulars  about  myself — nay,  nor  about  anybody 
else :  your  curiosity  seeming  to  be  pretty  much  the  same 
47 


The  State  of  the  Town 

about  all  the  world.  News  there  are  certainly  none,  no- 
body is  even '  dead,  as  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  [Lyttleton] 
told  me  to-day,  which  I  repeat  to  you  in  general,  though 
I  apprehend  in  his  own  mind  he  meant  no  possessor  of  a 
better  bishopric. 

If  you  like  to  know  the  state  of  the  town,  here  it  is. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  very  empty ;  in  the  next,  there 
are  more  diversions  than  the  week  will  hold.  A  charming 
Italian  opera,  with  no  dances  and  no  company,  at  least  on 
Tuesdays ;  to  supply  which  defects  the  subscribers  are 
to  have  a  ball  and  supper  —  a  plan  that  in  my  humble 
opinion  will  [fill]  the  Tuesdays  and  empty  the  Saturdays. 
At  both  playhouses  are  woful  English  operas,  which, 
however,  fill  better  than  the  Italian,  patriotism  being 
entirely  confined  to  our  ears ;  how  long  the  sages  of 
the  law  may  leave  us  those  I  cannot  say.  Mrs.  Cornelis, 
apprehending  the  future  assembly  at  Almack's,  has  en- 
larged her  vast  room,  and  hung  it  with  blue  satin,  and 
another  with  yellow  satin;  but  Almack's  room,  which 
is  to  be  ninety  feet  long,  proposes  to  swallow  up  both 
hers,  as  easily  as  Moses1  rod  gobbled  down  those  of  the 
magicians. 

Well,  but  there  are  more  joys ;  a  dinner  and  assembly 
every  Tuesday  at  the  Austrian  Minister's ;  ditto  on 
Thursdays  at  the  Spaniard's ;  ditto  on  Wednesdays  and 
Sundays  at  the  French  Ambassador's ;  besides  Madame 
de  Welderen's  on  Wednesdays,  Lady  Harrington's  Sun- 
days, and  occasional  private  mobs  at  my  Lady  North- 
umberland's. Then  for  the  mornings,  there  are  levees 
and  drawing-rooms  without  end.  Not  to  mention  the 
Maccaroni  Club ;  which  has  quite  absorbed  Arthur's ; 
for  you  know  old  fools  will  hobble  after  young  ones. 
Of  all  these  pleasures  I  prescribe  myself  a  very  small 
pittance,  —  my  dark  corner  in  my  own  box  at  the  Opera, 


Walpole  Forlorn 

and  now  and  then  an  ambassador,  to  keep  my  French 
going  till  my  journey  to  Paris.  Politics  are  gone  to  sleep, 
like  a  paroli  at  pharaoh,  though  there  is  the  finest  tract 
lately  published  that  was  ever  written,  called  an  "  Inquiry 
into  the  Doctrine  of  Libels"  It  would  warm  your  old 
Algernon  blood ;  but  for  what  anybody  cares,  might  as 
well  have  been  written  about  the  wars  of  York  and 
Lancaster. 

The  thing  most  in  fashion,  is  my  edition  of  Lord 
Herbert's  Life ;  people  are  mad  after  it,  I  believe  be- 
cause only  200  were  printed ;  and,  by  the  numbers 
that  admire  it,  I  am  convinced  that  if  I  had  kept  his 
lordship's  counsel,  very  few  would  have  found  out  the 
absurdity  of  it. 

The  caution  with  which  I  hinted  at  its  extravagance 
has  passed  with  several  for  approbation,  and  drawn  in 
theirs.  This  is  nothing  new  to  me ;  it  is  when  one  laughs 
out  at  their  idols,  that  one  angers  people.  I  do  not  wonder 
now  that  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  the  darling  hero, 
when  Lord  Herbert,  who  followed  him  so  close,  and 
trod  in  his  steps,  is  at  this  time  of  day  within  an  ace 
of  rivalling  him.  I  wish  I  had  let  him;  it  was  con- 
tradicting one  of  my  own  maxims,  which  I  hold  to  be 
very  just ;  that  it  is  idle  to  endeavour  to  cure  the 
world  of  any  folly,  unless  we  could  cure  it  of  being 
foolish. 

Tell  me  whether  I  am  likely  to  see  you  before  I  go  to 
Paris,  which  will  be  early  in  February.  I  hate  you  for 
being  so  indifferent  about  me.  I  live  in  the  world,  yet 
love  nothing;  care  a  straw  for  nothing  but  two  or  three 
old  friends  that  I  have  loved  these  30  years.  You  have 
buried  yourself  with  half  a  dozen  parsons  and  squires, 
and  yet  never  cast  a  thought  upon  those  you  have 
always  lived  with. 

E  49 


E.  FG.  takes  a  New  Pen 

You  come  to  town  for  two  months,  grow  tired  in 
six  weeks,  hurry  away,  and  then  one  hears  no  more 
of  you  till  next  winter.  I  don't  want  you  to  like  the 
world;  I  like  it  no  more  than  you;  but  I  stay  a 
while  in  it,  because  while  one  sees  it  one  laughs  at  it, 
but  when  one  gives  it  up,  one  grows  angry  with  it ;  and  I 
hold  it  much  wiser  to  laugh  than  to  be  out  of  humour. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  much  ill-blood  this  persever- 
ance has  cured  me  of;  I  used  to  say  to  myself:  "Lord! 
this  person  is  so  bad,  that  person  is  so  bad.  I  hate 
them."  I  have  now  found  out  that  they  are  all  pretty 
much  alike,  and  I  hate  nobody.  Having  never  found 
you  out,  but  for  integrity  and  sincerity,  I  am  much 
disposed  to  persist  in  a  friendship  with  you ;  but  if  I  am 
to  be  at  all  the  pains  of  keeping  it  up,  I  shall  imitate 
my  neighbours  (I  don't  mean  those  at  next  door,  but 
in  the  Scripture  sense  of  neighbour,  anybody)  and  say, 
"That  is  a  very  good  man,  but  I  don't  care  a  farthing 
for  him."  Till  I  have  taken  my  final  resolution  on  that 
head,  I  am  yours  most  cordially. 

Edward  FitzGerald  reports  progress    ^^      ^>      ^> 

MARKET  HILL,  WOODBRIDGE 
October  1866 

MY  DEAR  POLLOCK,— (You  shall  have  a  new 
Pen),  I  suppose  your  Country  Rambles  are  over, 
and  that  you  are  got  back  to  the  old  Shop.  Well  then,  let 
me  hear  of  you,  do.  I  can't  forget  your  kindly  accosting 
of  me  in  Holborn  in  the  Spring,  when  I  was  after 
Carpets,  etc.  Well,  I  fitted  up  two  rooms  in  my  new 
House  (there  are  only  three)  and  got  it  ready  for  a  sick 
Niece,  who  was  there  for  two  months. 


Sophocles  a  Sort  of  Craze 

But  I  have  not  got  into  it ;  but  go  on  here :  after 
living  some  forty  years  in  lodgings,  one  is  frightened 
at  a  Change  :  yet  it  would  be  better  to  go. 

Meanwhile,  here  I  am. 

For  nearly  four  months  I  was  living  on  board  my  Big 
Ship.  Bed  as  well  as  Board.  She  was  only  laid  up  in 
her  Mud  a  week  ago ;  and  here  I  am  returned  to  mine. 
Laurence  called  on  me  (he  was  at  my  Brothers)  just 
before  I  had  bid  Adieu  to  my  Seafaring ;  so  I  didn't  see 
him. 

Please  to  send  me  Spedding's  new  Address ;  he  won't, 
however,  be  obliged  to  you  for  doing  so,  I  believe ;  but 
I  must  have  the  Old  Villain  out  of  his  Cart  twice  a  Year 
at  least. 

I  want  you  to  send  me  your  "  Carte  de  Visite "  :  you 
said  you  would  three  or  four  years  ago,  but  you  have  not 
done  so.  Can't  you  send  me  a  good  one  of  Spedding? 
He  wouldn't,  for  all  I  could  say  to  him.  I  daresay  you 
have  several  of  him :  do  send  me  one :  and  not  the 
worst:  and  one  of  yourself,  Do.  I  have  written  to 
Blakesley  for  his ;  as  also  to  tell  him  that  his  Herodotus 
seems  to  me  the  very  best  Edition  of  a  classic  that  ever 
came  into  my  hands.  I  scarce  know  why  it  is  that  I 
always  get  back  to  Greek  (and  Virgil)  —  when  in  my 
Ship :  but  so  it  is.  Sophocles  has  been  a  sort  of  Craze 
to  me  this  Summer. 

(N.B.—  Don't  befrightened.  No  Translation  threatened ! 
All  that  done  with  for  ever.)  And  Herodotus  has  been 
delightful.  Now,  I  turn  again  to  Mudie.  Armadale 
have  you  read?  Absurd  as  it  is,  so  near  being  very 
good,  I  only  wish  it  were  a  dozen  Volumes  instead  of 
Two.  It  is  time  to  read  again  the  Woman  in  White :  a 
Masterpiece  in  its  way  I  do  think.  I  guessed  at  Annie 
Thackeray's  new  Novel  in  the  Cornhill;  so  much  of 


"Now  could  I  drink  hot  —  Grog  " 

her  Father:  so  much  of  Herself:  I  think  she  begins 
to  deal  rather  too  much  in  Reflections ;  but  her 
Pictures  are  delightful:  her  Children  the  best  I  ever 
read. 

'  Tis  now  the  very  witching  Time  of  night,  etc.  Now 
could  I  drink  hot  —  Grog  —  and  so  I  will.  When  I 
was  in  my  Ship  I  could  smoke  and  drink  —  Punch, 
even  —  but  I  shall  soon  have  to  give  up,  now  I  am  laid 
up. 

My  Paper  is  in  mourning,  for  my  Brother  Peter's 
Wife  :  a  Capital  Woman,  who  died  five  months 
ago. 

He  really  loved  her,  was  like  a  Ship  without  rudder 
when  he  lost  her,  and  has  in  consequence  just  married, 
his  Housekeeper. 

I  believe  he  has  done  well. 

Now  do  write  to  me ;  and  send  me  your  Photograph, 
as  also  the  Monster's. 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson  sets  down  a  day's  work  at 
Apia     ^>        x^>        *^y         ^y        xc^         ^Qy 

(To  Sidney  Colvin) 

IN  THE  MOUNTAIN,  APIA,  SAMOA 
Tuesday,  November  3,  1890 

I  BEGIN  to  see  the  whole    scheme    of  letter-writing; 
you   sit   down    every  day  and  pour  out  an  equable 
stream  of  twaddle.. 

This  morning  all  my  fears  were  fled,  and  all  the  trouble 

had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Peni  himself,  who  deserved  it ; 

my  field  was  full   of  weeders ;    and  I  am  again  able  to 

justify  the  ways  of  God.     All  morning  I  worked  at  the 

52 


The  Path  up  the  Vaituliga 

South  Seas,  and  finished  the  chapter  I  had  stuck  upon 
on  Saturday.  Fanny,  awfully  hove-to  with  rheumatics 
and  injuries  received  upon  the  field  of  sport  and  glory, 
chasing  pigs,  was  unable  to  go  up  and  down  stairs,  so 
she  sat  upon  the  back  verandah,  and  my  work  was 
chequered  by  her  cries.  "Paul,  you  take  a  spade  to  do 
that  —  dig  a  hole  first.  If  you  do  that,  you1ll  cut  your 
foot  off !  Here,  you  boy,  what  do  you  there  ?  You  no 
get  work  ?  You  go  find  Simele  ;  he  give  you  work. 
Peni,  you  tell  this  boy  he  go  find  Simele  ;  suppose 
Simele  no  give  him  work,  you  tell  him  go  'way.  I  no 
want  him  here.  That  boy  no  good." — Pent  (from  the 
distance  in  reassuring  tones),  "All  right,  sir  !"  —  Fanny 
(after  a  long  pause),  "Peni,  you  tell  that  boy  go  find 
Simele.  I  no  want  him  stand  here  all  day.  I  no 
pay  that  boy.  I  see  him  all  day.  He  no  do  nothing." 
Luncheon,  beef,  soda-scones,  fried  bananas,  pine-apple 
in  claret,  coffee.  Try  to  write  a  poem  ;  no  go.  Play 
the  flageolet.  Then  sneakingly  off  to  farming  and 
pioneering.  Four  gangs  at  work  on  our  place  ;  a 
lively  scene  ;  axes  crashing  and  smoke  blowing  ;  all 
the  knives  are  out.  But  I  rob  the  garden  party  of  one 
without  a  stock,  and  you  should  see  my  hand- — cut  to 
ribbons.  Now  I  want  to  do  my  path  up  the  Vaituliga 
single-handed,  and  I  want  it  to  burst  on  the  public  com- 
plete. Hence,  with  devilish  ingenuity,  I  begin  it  at 
different  places  ;  so  that  if  you  stumble  on  one  section, 
you  may  not  even  then  suspect  the  fulness  of  my  labours. 
Accordingly,  I  started  in  a  new  place,  below  the  wire, 
and  hoping  to  work  up  to  it.  It  was  perhaps  lucky  I 
had  so  bad  a  cutlass,  and  my  smarting  hand  bid  me 
stay  before  I  had  got  up  to  the  wire,  but  just  in  season, 
so  that  I  was  only  the  better  of  my  activity,  not  dead  beat 
as  yesterday. 

53 


In  a  South-Sea  Forest 

A  strange  business  it  was,  and  infinitely  solitary  ;  away 
above,  the  sun  was  in  the  high  tree-tops  ;  the  lianas 
noosed  and  sought  to  hang  me  ;  the  saplings  struggled, 
and  came  up  with  that  sob  of  death  that  one  gets  to  know 
so  well  ;  great,  soft,  sappy  trees  fell  at  a  lick  of  the  cut- 
lass, little  tough  switches  laughed  at  and  dared  my  best 
endeavour.  Soon,  toiling  down  in  that  pit  of  verdure, 
I  heard  blows  on  the  far  side,  and  then  laughter.  I 
confess  a  chill  settled  on  my  heart.  Being  so  dead 
alone,  in  a  place  where  by  rights  none  should  be  beyond 
me,  I  was  aware,  upon  interrogation,  if  those  blows  had 
drawn  nearer,  I  should  (of  course  quite  unaffectedly)  have 
executed  a  strategic  movement  to  the  rear  ;  and  only  the 
other  day  I  was  lamenting  my  insensibility  to  supersti- 
tion! Am  I  beginning  to  be  sucked  in  ?  Shall  I  become 
a  midnight  twitterer  like  my  neighbours  ?  At  times  I 
thought  the  blows  were  echoes ;  at  times  I  thought  the 
laughter  was  from  birds.  For  our  birds  are  strangely 
human  in  their  calls.  Vaea  mountain  about  sundown 
sometimes  rings  with  shrill  cries,  like  the  hails  of  merry, 
scattered  children.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  believe  stealthy 
wood-cutters  from  Tanugamanono  were  above  me  in  the 
wood  and  answerable  for  the  blows  ;  as  for  the  laughter, 
a  woman  and  two  children  had  come  and  asked  Fanny's 
leave  to  go  up  shrimp-fishing  in  the  burn  ;  beyond  doubt, 
it  was  these  I  heard.  Just  at  the  right  time  I  returned  ; 
to  wash  down,  change,  and  begin  this  snatch  of  letter 
before  dinner  was  ready,  and  to  finish  it  afterwards,  before 
Henry  has  yet  put  in  an  appearance  for  his  lesson  in  "  long 
explessions." 

Dinner  :    stewed   beef   and   potatoes,   baked   bananas, 
new  loaf-bread  hot  from  the  oven,  pine-apple  in   claret. 
These  are  great  days  ;  we  have  been  low  in  the  past  ;  but 
now  are  we  as  belly-gods,  enjoying  all  things. 
54 


Lady  Augusta  Stanley 

Thomas  Carlyle  meets  Queen  Victoria     x^«      "v^y 
(To  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries) 

CHELSEA,  March  n,  1869 

DEAR  JEAN,—  .  .  .  "Interview"  took  place  this 
day  gone  a  week ;  nearly  a  week  before  that,  the 
Dean  and  Deanm  (who  is  called  Lady  Augusta  Stanley, 
once  Bruce,  an  active  hand  and  busy  little  woman)  drove 
up  here  in  a  solemnly  mysterious,  though  half  quizzical 
manner,  invited  me  for  Thursday,  4th,  5  p.m.:  —  must 
come,  a  very  "high  or  indeed  highest  person  has  long 
been  desirous,"  etc.  etc.  I  saw  well  enough  it  was  the 
Queen  incognita  ;  and  briefly  agreed  to  come.  "  Half- 
past  4  COME  you  I"  and  then  went  their  ways. 

Walking  up  at  the  set  time,  I  was  then  ushered  into  a 
long  drawing-room  in  their  monastic  edifice.  I  found  no 
Stanley  there  ;  only  at  the  farther  end,  a  tall  old  Gearpole l 
of  a  Mrs.  Grote,  —  the  most  wooden  woman  I  know  in 
London  or  the  world,  who  thinks  herself  very  clever,  etc., 
—  the  sight  of  whom  taught  me  to  expect  others;  as  ac- 
cordingly, in  a  few  minutes,  fell  out.  Grote  and  wife,  Sir 
Charles  Lyell  and  ditto,  Browning  and  myself,  were  I  saw 
to  be  our  party.  "  Better  than  bargain  !  These  will  take 
the  edge  off  the  thing,  if  edge  it  have  ! "  —  which  it  hadn't, 
nor  threatened  to  have. 

The  Stanleys  and  we  were  all  in  a  flow  of  talk,  and  some 
flunkies  had  done  setting  coffee-pots,  tea-cups  of  sublime 
patterns,  when  Her  Majesty,  punctual  to  a  minute,  glided 
softly  in,  escorted  by  her  Dame  in  Waiting  (a  Dowager 
Duchess  of  Athol)  and  by  the  Princess  Louise,  decidedly  a 
very  pretty  young  lady,  and  clever  too,  as  I  found  in  speak- 
ing to  her  afterwards. 

1  Irish  weaver  implement. 

55 


Queen  Victoria 

The  Queen  came  softly  forward,  a  kindly  little  smile 
on  her  face;  gently  shook  hands  with  all  three  women, 
gently  acknowledged  with  a  nod  the  silent  deep  lion  of  us 
male  monsters  ;  and  directly  in  her  presence  everybody  was 
as  if  at  ease  again.  She  is  a  comely  little  lady,  with  a  pair 
of  kind,  clear,  and  intelligent  grey  eyes ;  still  looks  plump 
and  almost  young  (in  spite  of  one  broad  wrinkle  that 
shows  in  each  cheek  occasionally}  ;  has  a  fine  low  voice ; 
soft  indeed  her  whole  manner  is  and  melodiously  perfect ; 
it  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  politer  little  woman  —  nothing 
the  least  imperious ;  all  gentle,  all  sincere-looking ;  un- 
embarrassing,  rather  attractive  even ;  —  makes  you  feel 
too  (if  you  have  sense  in  you)  that  she  is  Queen. 

After,  a  little  word  to  each  of  us  in  succession  as  we 
stood,  —  to  me  it  was,  "  Sorry  you  did  not  see  my 
Daughter,"  Princess  of  Prussia  (or,  "  she  sorry,"  perhaps  ?) 
which  led  us  into  Potsdam,  Berlin,  etc.,  for  an  instant 
or  two;  to  Sir  Charles  Lyell  I  heard  her  say,  "Gold  in 
Sutherland,"  but  quickly  and  delicately  cut  him  short  in 
responding ;  to  Browning,  "  Are  you  writing  anything  ?  " 
(he  has  just  been  publishing  the  absurdest  of  things !)  ; 
to  Grote  I  did  not  hear  what  she  said ;  but  it  was  touch 
and  go  with  everybody ;  Majesty  visibly  without  interest 
or  nearly  so  of -her  own. 

This  done,  coffee  (very  black  and  muddy)  was  handed 
round ;  Queen  and  three  women  taking  seats  in  opposite 
corners,  Mrs.  Grote  in  a  chair  intrusively  close  to  Majesty, 
Lady  Lyell  modestly  at  the  diagonal  corner;  we  others 
obliged  to  stand,  and  hover  within  call.  Coffee  fairly 
done,  Lady  Augusta  called  me  gently  to  "  Come  and. 
speak  with  Her  Majesty."  I  obeyed,  first  asking,  as  an 
old  and  infirmish  man,  Majesty^  permission  to  sit, 
which  was  graciously  conceded.  Nothing  of  the  least 
significance  was  said,  nor  needed ';  however,  my  bit  of 

56 


The  Philosopher  Escapes 

dialogue  went  very  well.  "  What  part  of  Scotland  1 
came  from?"  "Dumfries-shire  (where  Majesty  might  as 
well  go  some  time) ;  Carlisle,  i.e.  Caer-Lewal,  a  place  about 
the  antiquity  of  King  Solomon  (according  to  Milton, 
whereat  Majesty  smiled) ;  Border-Ballads  (and  even 
old  Jamie  Pool  slightly  alluded  to,  —  not  by  name!); 
Glasgow,  and  even  Grandfather's  ride  thither,  —  ending  in 
mere  psa/ms,  and  streets  vacant  at  half-past  nine  p.m. ;  — 
hard  sound  and  genuine  Presbyterian  root  of  what  has 
now  shot  up  to  be  such  a  monstrous  ugly  cabbage-tree 
and  Hemlock-tree  ! "  all  which  Her  Majesty  seemed  to 
take  rather  well. 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Grote  rose,  and  good  naturedly  brought 
forward  her  Husband  to  her  own  chair,  cheek  by  jowl 
with  Her  Majesty,  who  evidently  did  not  care  a  straw 
for  him,  but  kindly  asked  "Writing  anything?"  and  one 
heard  "  Aristotle,  now  that  I  have  done  with  Plato,"  etc., 
etc.  —  but  only  for  a  minimum  of  time.  Majesty  herself 
(I  think  apropos  of  some  question  of  my  shaking  hand) 
said  something  about  her  own  difficulty  in  writing  by 
dictation,  which  brought  forward  Lady  Lyell  and  husband, 
naturally  used  to  the  operation — after  which,  talk  be- 
coming trivial,  Majesty  gracefully  retired,  —  Lady  Augusta 
with  her,  —  and  in  ten  minutes  more,  returned  to  receive 
our  farewell  bows  ;  which,  too,  she  did  very  prettily ;  and 
sailed  out  as  if  moving  on  skates,  and  bending  her  head 
towards  us  with  a  smile.  By  the  Underground  Railway 
I  was  home  before  seven,  and  out  of  the  adventure,  with 
only  a  headache  of  little  moment. 

Froude  tells  me  there  are  foolish  myths  about  the 
poor  business,  especially  about  my  share  of  it,  but  this  is 
the  real  truth ;  —  worth  to  me,  in  strict  speech,  all  but 
nothing;  the  myths  even* less  than  nothing.  .  .  . 

T.  CARLYLE 
57 


A  Questionable  Model 

Mary  Guilhermin,  1766,  instructs  children  in  the  art 
of  letter-writing.       -^      -^      ^x      -<^      ^> 

DEAR  PAPA,  — Yesterday,  after  an  agreeable  walk 
of  half-a-mile  to  our  parish  church,  I  was  inspired 
with  a  truly  unaffected  zeal  to  join  in  that  well  composed 
form  of  prayer  contained  in  our  church  liturgy,  expressed 
in  so  audible,  so  solemn,  so  easy  an  elocution,  so  em- 
phatic, without  the  least  tincture  of  pedantry,  that  the 
divine  proved  to  his  congregation  he  was  sensible  that 
he  was  addressing  the  Supreme  Being,  which  dispenses 
happiness  to  mankind,  and  inspired  everyone  with  a  real 
fervency  to  join  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving  to  our  Creator. 
When  he  mounted  the  pulpit,  his  grave  deportment  drew 
the  attention  of  old  and  young.  His  subject,  on  the 
reciprocal  duties  between  parents  and  children,  warmed 
one  with  a  lively  gratitude  for  your  kind  nurture  of  me 
from  tender  infancy  till  now.  Every  duty  he  mentioned 
that  is  required  from  the  parent  I  was  persuaded  you  had 
performed  in  regard  to  me,  and  upon  examination,  find- 
ing myself  too  often  deficient  in  my  past,  have  resolved 
to  amend  past  errors,  and  by  a  uniform  good  behaviour 
prove  myself  to  be  your 

GRATEFUL  AND  FAITHFUL  SON 


Ill 

THE   FAMILIAR   MANNER 

Miss  Austen  tells  all  the  news         <^         <^         -^ 

I 

STEVENTON,  Tuesday,  December  1798 

MY  DEAR  CASSANDRA,  — Your  letter  came  quite 
as  soon  as  I  expected,  and  so  your  letters  will 
always  do,  because  I  have  made  it  a  rule  not  to  expect 
them  till  they  come,  in  which  I  think  I  consult  the  ease 
of  us  both. 

It  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  us  to  hear  that  your  busi- 
ness is  in  a  way  to  be  settled,  and  so  settled  as  to  give 
you  as  little  inconvenience  as  possible.  You  are  very 
welcome  to  my  father's  name  and  to  his  services  if  they  are 
ever  required  in  it.  I  shall  keep  my  ten  pounds  too,  to 
wrap  myself  up  in  next  winter. 

I  took  the  liberty  a  few  days  ago  of  asking  your  black 
velvet  bonnet  to  lend  me  its  cawl,  which  it  very  readily 
did,  and  by  which  I  have  been  enabled  to  give  a  con- 
siderable improvement  of  dignity  to  cap,  which  was 
before  too  nidgetty  to  please  me.  I  shall  wear  it  on 
59 


Miss  Austen's  Bonnet 

Thursday,  but  I  hope  you  will  not  be  offended  with  me 
for  following  your  advice  as  .to  its  ornaments  only  in  part. 
I  still  venture  to  retain  the  narrow  silver  round  it,  put 
twice  round  without  any  bow,  and  instead  of  the  black 
military  feather  shall  put  in  the  coquelicot  one  as  being 
smarter,  and  besides  coquelicot  is  to  be  all  the  fashion 
this  winter.  After  the  ball  I  shall  probably  make  it  en- 
tirely black. 

I  am  sorry  that  our  dear  Charles  begins  to  feel  the 
dignity  of  ill-usage.  My  father  will  write  to  Admiral 
Gambier.  He  must  have  already  received  so  much  satis- 
faction from  his  acquaintance  and  patronage  of  Frank, 
that  he  will  be  delighted,  I  dare  say,  to  have  another  of 
the  family  introduced  to  him.  I  think  it  would  be  very 
right  in  Charles  to  address  Sir  Thomas  on  the  occasion, 
though  I  cannot  approve  of  your  scheme  of  writing  to 
him  (which  you  communicated  to  me  a  few  nights  ago) 
to  request  him  to  come  here  and  convey  you  to  Steventon. 
To  do  you  justice,  however,  you  had  some  doubts  of  the 
propriety  of  such  a  measure  yourself. 

I  am  very  much  obliged  to  my  dear  little  George  for 
his  message  —  for  his  love  at  least ;  his  duty,  I  suppose, 
was  only  in  consequence  of  some  hints  of  my  favourable 
intentions  towards  him  from  his  father  or  mother.  I  am 
sincerely  rejoiced,  however,  that  I  ever  was  born,  since 
it  has  been  the  means  of  procuring  him  a  dish  of  tea. 
Give  my  best  love  to  him. 

This  morning  has  been  made  very  gay  to  us  by  visits 
from  our  two  lively  neighbours,  Mr.  Holder  and  Mr.  John 
Harwood. 

I  have  received  a  very  civil  note  from  Mrs.  Martin,  re- 
questing my  name  as  a  subscriber  to  her  Library,  which 
opens  January  14,  and  my  name,  or  rather  yours,  is 
accordingly  given.  My  mother  finds  the  money.  May 
60 


Mrs.  Powlett  gives  Satisfaction 

subscribes  too,  which  I  am  glad  of,  but  hardly  expected. 
As  an  inducement  to  subscribe,  Mrs.  Martin  tells  me  that 
her  collection  is  not  to  consist  only  of  novels,  but  of  every 
kind  of  literature,  etc.  She  might  have  spared  this  pre- 
tension to  our  family,  who  are  great  novel-readers  and 
not  ashamed  of  being  so ;  but  it  was  necessary,  I  suppose, 
to  the  self-consequence  of  half  her  subscribers. 

I  hope  and  imagine  that  Edward  Taylor  is  to  inherit 
all  Sir  Edward  Bering's  fortune  as  well  as  all  his  own 
father's.  I  took  care  to  tell  Mrs.  Lefroy  of  your  calling  on 
her  mother,  and  she  seemed  pleased  with  it. 

I  enjoyed  the  hard  black  frosts  of  last  week  very  much, 
and  one  day  while  they  lasted  walked  to  Deane  by 
myself.  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  did  such  a  thing  in 
my  life  before. 

Charles  Powlett  has  been  very  ill,  but  is  getting  well 
again.  His  wife  is  discovered  to  be  everything  that  the 
neighbourhood  could  wish  her,  silly  and  cross  as  well  as 
extravagant. 

Earle  Harwood  and  his  friend  Mr.  Bailey  came  to 
Deane  yesterday,  but  are  not  to  stay  above  a  day  or  two. 
Earle  has  got  the  appointment  to  a  prison  ship  at  Ports- 
mouth, which  he  has  been  for  some  time  desirous  of  having, 
and  he  and  his  wife  are  to  live  on  board  for  the  future. 

We  dine  now  at  half-past  three,  and  have  done  dinner, 
I  suppose,  before  you  begin.  We  drink  tea  at  half-past 
six.  I  am  afraid  you  will  despise  us.  My  father  reads 
Cowper  to  us  in  the  morning,  to  which  I  listen  when  I 
can.  How  do  you  spend. your  evenings?  I  guess  that 
Elizabeth  works,  that  you  read  to  her,  and  that  Edward 
goes  to  sleep.  My  mother  continues  hearty ;  her  appetite 
and  nights  are  very  good,  but  she  complains  of  an 
asthma,  a  dropsy,  water  in  her  chest,  and  a  liver  disorder. 

The  third  Miss  Irish  Lefroy  is  going  to  be  married  to 
61 


James  Digweed's  Accident 

a  Mr.  Courteney,  but  whether  James  or  Charles  I  do  not 
know.  Miss  Lyford  is  gone  into  Suffolk  with  her  brother 
and  Miss  Lodge.  Everybody  is  now  busy  in  making  up 
an  income  for  the  two  latter.  Miss  Lodge  has  only 
8oo/.  of  her  own,  and  it  is  not  supposed  that  her  father 
can  give  her  much ;  therefore  the  good  offices  of  the 
neighbourhood  will  be  highly  acceptable.  John  Lyford 
means  to  take  pupils. 

James  Digweed  has  had  a  very  ugly  cut  —  how  could  it 
happen?  It  happened  by  a  young  horse  which  he  had 
lately  purchased,  and  which  he  was  trying  to  back  into 
its  stable ;  the  animal  kicked  him  down  with  his  fore  feet, 
and  kicked  a  great  hole  in  his  head ;  he  scrambled  away 
as  soon  as  he  could,  but  was  stunned  for  a  time,  and 
suffered  a  good  deal  of  pain  afterwards.  Yesterday  he 
got  upon  the  horse  again,  and,  for  fear  of  something 
worse,  was  forced  to  throw  himself  off. 

Wednesday.  —  I  have  changed  my  mind,  and  changed 
the  trimmings  of  my  cap  this  morning:  they  are  now 
such  as  you  suggested.  I  felt  as  if  I  should  not  prosper 
if  I  strayed  from  your  directions,  and  I  think  it  makes  me 
look  more  like  Lady  Conyngham  now  than  it  did  before, 
which  is  all  that  one  lives  for  now.  I  believe  I  shall 
make  my  new  gown  like  my  robe,  but  the  back  of  the 
latter  is  all  in  a  piece  with  the  tail,  and  will  seven  yards 
enable  me  to  copy  it  in  that  respect? 

Mary  went  to  church  on  Sunday,  and  had  the  weather 
been  smiling,  we  should  have  seen  her  before  this  time. 
Perhaps  I  may  stay  at  Many  down  as  long  as  Monday,  but 
not  longer.  Martha  sends  me  word  that  she  is  too  busy 
to  write  to  me  now,  and  but  for  your  letter  I  should  have 
supposed  her  deep  in  the  study  of  medicine  preparatory 
to  their  removal  from  Ibthorp.  The  letter  to  Gambier 
goes  to-day. 

62 


Miss  Austen's  Magnificent  Project 

I  expect  a  very  stupid  ball ;  there  will  be  nobody 
worth  dancing  with,  and  nobody  worth  talking  to  but 
Catherine,  for  I  believe  Mrs.  Lefroy  will  not  be  there. 
Lucy  is  to  go  with  Mrs.  Russell. 

People  get  so  horribly  poor  and  economical  in  this  part 
of  the  world  that  I  have  no  patience  with  them.  Kent  is 
the  only  place  for  happiness ;  everybody  is  rich  there.  I 
must  do  similar  justice,  however,  to  the  Windsor  neigh- 
bourhood. I  have  been  forced  to  let  James  and  Miss 
Debry  have  two  sheets  of  your  drawing-paper,  but  they 
shan't  have  any  more ;  there  are  not  above  three  or  four 
left,  besides  one  of  a  smaller  and  richer  sort.  Perhaps 
you  may  want  some  more  if  you  come  through  town  in 
your  return,  or  rather  buy  some  more,  for  your  wanting 
it  will  not  depend  on  your  coming  through  town,  I  imagine. 
I  have  just  heard  from  Martha  and  Frank :  his  letter  was 
written  on  November  12.  All  well  and  nothing  particular. 

J.A. 

II 

CHAWTON,  Friday  (May  31)  1811 

MY   DEAR   CASSANDRA, —  I   have  a  magnificent 
project.     The  Cookes  have  put  off  their  visit  to  us  ; 
they  are  not  well  enough  to  leave  home  at  present,  and 
we  have   no  chance  of  seeing  them  till  I  do  not  know 
when  —  probably  never  in  this  house. 

This  circumstance  has  made  me  think  the  present  time 
would  be  favourable  for  Miss  Sharpens  coming  to  us, 
it  seems  a  more  disengaged  period  with  us  than  we  are 
likely  to  have  later  in  the  summer.  If  Frank  and  Mary 
do  come,  it  can  hardly  be  before  the  middle  of  July, 
which  will  be  allowing  a  reasonable  length  of  visit  for 
Miss  Sharpe,  supposing  she  begins  it  when  you  return; 

63 


Comfort  for  a  Thunderstorm 

and  if  you  and  Martha  do  not  dislike  the  plan,  and  she 
can  avail  herself  of  it,  the  opportunity  of  her  being  con- 
veyed hither  will  be  excellent. 

I  shall  write  to  Martha  by  this  post,  and  if  neither  you 
nor  she  make  any  objection  to  my  proposal,  I  shall  make 
the  invitation  directly,  and  as  there  is  no  time  to  lose, 
you  must  write  by  return  of  post  if  you  have  any  reason 
for  not  wishing  it  done.  It  was  her  intention,  I  believe, 
to  go  first  to  Mr.  Lloyd,  but  such  a  means  of  getting  here 
may  influence  her  otherwise. 

We   have  had   a   thunder-storm   again,   this   morning. 

Your  letter  came  to  comfort  me  for  it. 

I  have  taken  your  hint,  slight  as  it  was,  and  have 
written  to  Mrs.  Knight,  and  most  sincerely  do  I  hope 
it  will  not  be  in  vain.  I  cannot  endure  the  idea  of  her 
giving  away  her  own  wheel,  and  have  told  her  no  more 
than  the  truth,  in  saying  that  I  could  never  use  it  with 
comfort.  I  had  a  great  mind  to  add  that,  if  she  persists 
in  giving  it,  I  would  spin  nothing  with  it  but  a  rope  to 
hang  myself,  but  I  was  afraid  of  making  it  appear  a  less 
serious  matter  of  feeling  than  it  really  is. 

I  am  glad  you  are  so  well  yourself,  and  wish  every- 
body else  were  equally  so.  I  will  not  say  that  your 
mulberry-trees  are  dead,  but  I  am  afraid  they  are  not 
alive.  We  shall  have  pease  soon.  I  mean  to  have 
them  with  a  couple  of  ducks  from  Wood  Barn,  and 
Maria  Middleton,  towards  the  end  of  next  week. 

From  Monday  to  Wednesday  Anna  is  to  be  engaged 
at  Faringdon,  in  order  that  she  may  come  in  for  the 
gaieties  of  Tuesday  (the  4th),  on  Selborne  Common, 
where  there  are  to  be  volunteers  and  felicities  of  all  kinds. 
Harriet  B.  is  invited  to  spend  the  day  with  the  John 
Whites,  and  her  father  and  mother  have  very  kindly 
undertaken  to  get  Anna  invited  also. 

64 


The  Plumbtree  Problem 

Harriet  and  Eliza  dined  here  yesterday,  and  we  walked 
back  with  them  to  tea  —  not  my  mother  —  she  has  a  cold, 
which  affects  her  in  the  -usual  way,  and  was  not  equal 
to  the  walk.  She  is  better  this  morning,  and  I  hope  will 
soon  physick  away  the  worst  part  of  it.  It  has  not  con- 
fined her;  she  has  got  out  every  day  that  the  weather 
has  allowed  her. 

Poor  Anna  is  also  suffering  from  her  cold,  which  is 
worse  to-day,  but  as  she  has  no  sore  throat  I  hope  it 
may  spend  itself  by  Tuesday.  She  had  a  delightful 
evening  with  the  Miss  Middletons  —  syllabub,  tea,  coffee, 
singing,  dancing,  a  hot  supper,  eleven  o'clock,  every- 
thing that  can  be  imagined  agreeable.  She  desires  her 
best  love  to  Fanny,  and  will  answer  her  letter  before  she 
leaves  Chawton,  and  engages  to  send  her  a  particular 
account  of  the  Selborne  day. 

We  cannot  agree  as  to  which  is  the  eldest  of  the  two 
Miss  Plumbtrees ;  send  us  word.  Have  you  remembered 
to  collect  pieces  for  the  patch  work?  We  are  now  at  a 
standstill.  I  got  up  here  to  look  for  the  old  map,  and 
can  now  tell  you  that  it  shall  be  sent  to-morrow  •,  it  was 
among  the  great  parcel  in  the  dining-room.  As  to  my 
debt  of  35.  6d.  to  Edward,  I  must  trouble  you  to  pay  it 
when  you  settle  with  him  for  your  boots. 

We  begun  our  China  tea  three  days  ago,  and  I  find  it 
very  good.  My  companions  know  nothing  of  the  matter. 
As  to  Fanny  and  her  twelve  pounds  in  a  twelve  month, 
she  may  talk  till  she  is  as  black  in  the  face  as  her  own 
tea,  but  I  cannot  believe  her  —  more  likely  twelve  pounds 
to  a  quarter. 

I  have  a  message  to  you  from  Mrs.  Cooke.  The  sub- 
stance of  it  is,  that  she  hopes  you  will  take  Bookham 
in  your  way  home,  and  stay  there  as  long  as  you  can, 
and  that  when  you  must  leave  them  they  will  convey 

F  65 


Miss  Webb  and  the  Letter  R 

you  to  Guilford.  You  may  be  sure  that  it  is  very  kindly 
worded,  and  that  there  is  no  want  of  attendant  com- 
pliments to  my  brother  and  his  family. 

I  am  very  sorry  for  Mary,  but  I  have  some  comfort 
in  there  being  two  curates  now  lodging  in  Bookham, 
besides  their  own  Mr.  Waineford,  from  Dorking,  so  that 
I  think  she  must  fall  in  love  with  one  or  the  other. 

How  horrible  it  is  to  have  so  many  people  killed! 
And  what  a  blessing  that  one  cares  for  none  of  them! 

I  return  to  my  letter-writing  from  calling  on  Miss 
Harriet  Webb,  who  is  short  and  not  quite  straight,  and 
cannot  pronounce  an  R  any  better  than  her  sisters ;  but 
she  has  dark  hair,  a  complexion  to  suit,  and,  I  think,  has 
the  pleasantest  countenance  and  manner  of  the  three  — 
the  most  natural. 

She  appears  very  well  pleased  with  her  new  home, 
and  they  are  all  reading  with  delight  Mrs.  H.  More's 
recent  publication. 

You  cannot  imagine  —  it  is  not  in  human  nature  to 
imagine  —  what  a  nice  walk  we  have  round  the  orchard. 
The  row  of  beech  look  very  well  indeed,  and  so  does 
the  young  quickset  hedge  .in  the  garden.  I  hear  to-day 
that  an  apricot  has  been  detected  on  one  of  the  trees. 
My  mother  is  perfectly  convinced  now  that  she  shall 
not  be  overpowered  by  her  cleft-wood,  and  I  believe  I 
would  rather  have  more  than  less.  Strange  to  tell,  Mr. 
Prowting  was  not  at  Miss  Lee's  wedding,  but  his 
daughters  had  some  cake,  and  Anna  had  her  share  of  it. 

I  continue  to  like  our  old  cook  quite  as  well  as  ever,  and, 
but  that  I  am  afraid  to  write  in  her  praise,  I  could  say 
that  she  seems  just  the  servant  for  us.  Her  cookery  is 
at  least  tolerable ;  her  pastry  is  the  only  deficiency. 

God  bless  you,  and  I  hope  June  will  find  you  well, 
and  bring  us  together.  —  Yours  ever,  JANE 

66 


A  Delay  at  Kingston 

I  hope  you  understand  that  I  do  not  expect  you  to 
write  on  Sunday  if  you  like  my  plan.  I  shall  consider 
silence  as  consent. 

Ill 

HENRIETTA  STREET,  W.C. 
Wednesday,  September  15,  J  past  8  [1813] 

HERE  I  am,  my  dearest  Cassandra,  seated  in  the 
breakfast,  dining,  sitting-room,  beginning  with  all 
my  might.  Fanny  will  join  me  as  soon  as  she  is  dressed 
and  begin  her  letter.  We  had  a  very  good  journey, 
weather  and  roads  excellent;  the  three  first  stages  for 
is.  6d.,  and  our  only  misadventure  the  being  delayed 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  Kingston  for  horses,  and 
being  obliged  to  put  up  with  a  pair  belonging  to  a 
hackney  coach  and  their  coachman,  which  left  no  room 
on  the  barouche  box  for  Lizzy,  who  was  to  have  gone  her 
last  stage  there  as  she  did  the  first;  consequently  we 
were  all  four  within,  which  was  a  little  crowded. 

We  arrived  at  a  quarter  past  four,  and  were  kindly 
welcomed  by  the  coachman,  and  then  by  his  master,  and 
then  by  William,  and  then  by  Mrs.  Pengird,  who  all  met 
us  before  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Mdme 
Bigion  was  below  dressing  us  a  most  comfortable  dinner 
of  soup,  fish,  bouillee,  partridges,  and  an  apple  tart,  which 
we  sat  down  to  soon  after  five,  after  cleaning  and  dress- 
ing ourselves  and  feeling  that  we  were  most  commodiously 
disposed  of.  The  little  adjoining  dressing-room  to  our 
apartment  makes  Fanny  and  myself  very  well  off  indeed, 
and  as  we  have  poor  Eliza's  bed  our  space  is  ample 
every  way. 

Sace  arrived  safely  at  about  half-past  six.  At  seven 
we  set  off  in  a  coach  for  the  Lyceum,  were  at  home 
67 


Henry  Austen's  Cold 

again  in  about  four  hours  and  a  half;  had  soup,  and 
wine  and  water,  and  then  went  to  our  holes. 

Edward  finds  his  quarters  very  small  and  quiet.  I 
must  get  a  softer  pen.  This  is  harder.  I  am  in  agonies. 
I  have  not  yet  seen  Mr.  Crabbe.  Martha's  letter  is  gone 
to  the  post. 

I  am  going  to  write  nothing  but  short  sentences. 
There  shall  be  two  full  stops  in  every  line.  Layton 
and  Shear's  is  Bedford  House.  We  mean  to  get  there 
before  breakfast  if  it's  possible;  for  we  feel  more  and 
more  how  much  we  have  to  do  and  how  little  time. 
This  house  looks  very  nice.  It  seems  like  Sloane  Street 
moved  here.  I  believe  Henry  is  just  rid  of  Sloane 
Street.  Fanny  does  not  come,  but  I  have  Edward 
seated  by  me  beginning  a  letter,  which  looks  natural. 

Henry  has  been  suffering  from  the  pain  in  the  face 
which  he  has  been  subject  to  before.  He  caught  cold  at 
Matlock,  and  since  his  return  has  been  paying  a  little  for 
past  pleasure.  It  is  nearly  removed  now,  but  he  looks 
thin  in  the  face,  either  from  the  pain  or  the  fatigues  of 
his  tour,  which  must  have  been  great. 

Lady  Robert  is  delighted  with  P.  and  P.,  and  really 
was  so,  as  I  understand,  before  she  knew  who  wrote  it,  for 
of  course,  she  knows  now.  He  told  her  with  as  much 
satisfaction  as  if  it  were  my  wish.  He  did  not  tell  me 
this,  but  he  told  Fanny.  And  Mr.  Hastings !  I  am  quite 
delighted  with  what  such  a  man  writes  about  it.  Henry 
sent  him  the  books  after  his  return  from  Daylesford,  but 
you  will  hear  the  letter  too. 

Let  me  be  rational,  and  return  to  my  two  full  stops. 

I  talked  to  Henry  at  the  play  last  night.     We  were  in 

a  private  box  —  Mr.  Spencer's  —  which  made  it  much  more 

pleasant.      The   box  is   directly   on   the   stage.     One   is 

infinitely  less  fatigued  than  in  the  common  way.      But 

68 


A  London  Holiday 

Henry's  plans  are  not  what  one  could  wish.  He  does 
not  mean  to  be  at  Chawton  till  the  29th.  He  must  be  in 
town  again  by  Oct.  5.  His  plan  is  to  get  a  couple  of 
days  of  pheasant  shooting  and  then  return  directly. 

His  wish  was  to  bring  you  back  with  him.  I  have  told 
him  of  your  scruples.  He  wishes  you  to  suit  yourself  as 
to  time,  and  if  you  cannot  come  till  later,  will  send  for 
you  any  time  as  far  as  Bagshot.  He  presumed  you  would 
not  find  difficulty  in  getting  so  far.  I  could  not  say  you 
would.  He  proposed  your  going  with  him  into  Oxford- 
shire. It  was  his  own  thought  at  first.  I  could  not  but 
catch  at  it  for  you. 

We  have  talked  of  it  again  this  morning  (for  now  we 
have  breakfasted),  and  I  am  convinced  that  if  you  can 
make  it  suit  in  other  respects  you  need  not  scruple  on  his 
account.  If  you  cannot  come  back  with  him  on  the  3rd 
or  4th,  therefore,  I  do  hope  you  will  contrive  to  go  to 
Adlestrop.  By  not  beginning  your  absence  till  about  the 
middle  of  this  month  I  think  you  may  manage  it  very 
well.  But  you  will  think  all  this  over.  One  could  wish 
he  had  intended  to  come  to  you  earlier,  but  it  cannot  be 
helped. 

I  said  nothing  to  him  of  Mrs.  H.  and  Miss  B.  that  he 
might  not  suppose  difficulties.  Shall  not  you  put  them 
into  our  own  room  ?  This  seems  to  me  the  best  plan, 
and  the  maid  will  be  most  conveniently  near.  Oh,  dear 
me!  When  shall  I  ever  have  done?  We  did  go  to 
Layton  and  Shear's  before  breakfast.  Very  pretty 
English  poplins  at  43.  3d. ;  Irish  ditto  at  6s. ;  more 
pretty,  certainly  —  beautiful. 

Fanny  and  the  two  girls  are  gone  to  take  places  for 
to-night  at  Covent  Garden ;  Clandestine  Marriage  and 
Midas.  The  latter  will  be  a  fine  show  for  L.  and  M. 
They  revelled  last  night  in  Don  Jiian,  whom  we  left  in 

69 


Miss  Austen's  New  Gown 

Hell  at  half-past  eleven.  We  had  Scaramouch  and  a 
ghost,  and  were  delighted.  I  speak  of  them ;  my  delight 
was  very  tranquil,  and  the  rest  of  us  were  sober-minded. 
Don  Juan  was  the  last  of  three  musical  things.  Five 
Hours  at  Brighton,  in  three  acts  —  of  which  one  was  over 
before  we  arrived,  none  the  worse  —  and  the  Beehive^ 
rather  less  flat  and  trumpery. 

I  have  this  moment  received  5/.  from  kind,  beautiful 
Edward.  Fanny  has  a  similar  gift.  I  shall  save  what 
I  can  of  it  for  your  better  leisure  in  this  place.  My 
letter  was  from  Miss  Sharpe  —  nothing  particular.  A 
letter  from  Fanny  Cage  this  morning. 

Four  o**  clock.  —  We  are  just  come  back  from  doing  Mr. 
Tickars,  Miss  Hare,  and  Mr.  Spence.  Mr.  Hall  is  here, 
and,  while  Fanny  is  under  his  hands,  I  will  try  to  write 
a  little  more. 

Miss  Hare  had  some  pretty  caps,  and  is  to  make  me 
one  like  one  of  them,  only  white  satin  instead  of  blue. 
It  will  be  white  satin  and  lace,  and  a  little  white  flower 
perking  out  of  the  left  ear,  like  Harriot  Byron's  feather. 
I  have  allowed  her  to  go  as  far  as  i/.  i6s.  My  gown 
is  to  be  trimmed  everywhere  with  white  ribbon  plaited 
on  somehow  or  other.  She  says  it  will  look  well.  I  am 
not  sanguine.  They  trim  with  white  very  much. 

I  learnt  from  Mrs.  Tickars'  young  lady,  to  my  high 
amusement,  that  the  stays  now  are  not  made  to  force  the 
bosom  up  at  all ;  that  was  a  very  unbecoming,  unnatural 
fashion.  I  was  really  glad  to  hear  that  they  are  not  to 
be  so  much  off  the  shoulders  as  they  were. 

Going  to  Mr.  Spence's  was  a  sad  business  and  cost  us 
many  tears ;  unluckily  we  were  obliged  to  go  a  second 
time  before  he  could  do  more  than  just  look.  We  went 
first  at  half-past  twelve  and  afterwards  at  three ;  papa  with 
us  each  time ;  and,  alas !  we  are  to  go  again  to-morrow. 
70 


Dentist  and  Coiffeur 

Lizzy  is  not  finished  yet.  There  have  been  no  teeth 
taken  out,  however,  nor  will  be,  I  believe,  but  he  finds 
hers  in  a  very  bad  state,  and  seems  to  think  particularly 
ill  of  their  durableness.  They  have  been  all  cleaned, 
hers  filed,  and  are  to  be  filed  again.  There  is  a  very  sad 
hole  between  two  of  her  front  teeth. 

Thursday  morning,  half -past  seven.  — Up  and  dressed 
and  downstairs  in  order  to  finish  my  letter  in  time  for  the 
parcel.  At  eight  I  have  an  appointment  with  Madame 
B.,  who  wants  to  show  me  something  downstairs.  At 
nine  we  are  to  set  off  for  Grafton  House,  and  get  that 
over  before  breakfast.  Edward  is  so  kind  as  to  walk 
there  with  us.  We  are  to  be  at  Mr.  Spence's  again  at 
11.5;  from  that  time  shall  be  driving  about  I  suppose 
till  four  o'clock  at  least.  We  are,  if  possible,  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Tilson. 

Mr.  Hall  was  very  punctual  yesterday,  and  curled  me 
out  at  a  great  rate.  I  thought  its  look  hideous,  and 
longed  for  a  snug  cap  instead,  but  my  companions 
silenced  me  by  their  admiration.  I  had  only  a  bit  of 
velvet  round  my  head.  I  did  not  catch  cold,  however. 
The  weather  is  all  in  my  favour.  I  have  no  pain  in  my 
face  since  I  left  you. 

We  had  very  good  places  in  the  box  next  the  stage- 
box,  front  and  second  row ;  the  three  old  ones  behind  of 
course.  I  was  particularly  disappointed  at  seeing  nothing 
of  Mr.  Crabbe.  I  felt  sure  of  him  when  I  saw  that  the 
boxes  were  fitted  up  with  crimson  velvet.  The  new  Mr. 
Terry  was  Lord  Ogleby,  and  Henry  thinks  he  may  do ; 
but  there  was  no  acting  more  than  moderate,'  and  I  was 
as  much  amused  by  the  remembrances  connected  with 
Midas  as  with  any  part  of  it.  The  girls  were  very  much 
delighted,  but  still  prefer  Don  Jiian ;  and  I  must  say 
that  I  have  seen  nobody  on  the  stage  who  has  been  a 
71 


Miss  Austen's  Extravagance 

more  interesting  character  than  that  compound  of  cruelty 
and  lust. 

It  was  not  possible  for  me  to  get  the  worsteds 
yesterday.  I  heard  Edward  last  night  pressing  Henry 
to  come  to  you,  and  I  think  Henry  engaged  to  go  there 
after  his  November  collection.  Nothing  has  been  done 
as  to  S.  and  S. 

The  books  came  to  hand  too  late  for  him  to  have  time 
for  it  before  he  went.  Mr.  Hastings  never  hinted  at 
Eliza  in  the  smallest  degree.  Henry  knew  nothing  of 
Mr.  Trimmer's  death.  I  tell  you  these  things  that  you 
may  not  have  to  ask  them  over  again. 

There  is  a  new  clerk  sent  down  to  Alton,  a  Mr.  Edward 
Williams,  a  young  man  whom  Henry  thinks  most  highly 
of,  and  he  turns  out  to  be  a  son  of  the  luckless  Williamses 
of  Grosvenor  Place. 

I  long  to  have  you  hear  Mr.  H.'s  opinion  of  P.  and  P. 
His  admiring  my  Elizabeth  so  much  is  particularly 
welcome  to  me. 

Instead  of  saving  my  superfluous  wealth  for  you  to 
spend,  I  am  going  to  treat  myself  with  spending  it 
myself.  I  hope,  at  least,  that  I  shall  find  some  poplin 
at  Layton  and  Shear's  that  will  tempt  me  to  buy  it. 
If  I  do,  it  shall  be  sent  to  Chawton,  as  half  will  be  for 
you ;  for  I  depend  upon  your  being  so  kind  as  to  accept 
it,  being  the  main  point.  It  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to 
me.  Don't  say  a  word.  I  only  wish  you  could  choose 
too.  I  shall  send  twenty  yards. 

Now  for  Bath.  Poor  F.  Cage  has  suffered  a  good 
deal  from  her  accident.  The  noise  of  the  White  Hart 
was  terrible  to  her..  They  will  keep  her  quiet,  I  dare 
say.  She  is  not  so  much  delighted  with  the  place  as  the 
rest  of  the  party ;  probably,  as  she  says  herself,  from 
having  being  less  well,  but  she  thinks  she  should  like  it 
72 


A  Good  Grandmother 

better  in  the  season.  The  streets  are  very  empty  now, 
and  the  shops  not  so  gay  as  she  expected.  They  are  at 
No.  i  Henrietta  Street,  the  corner  of  Laura  Place,  and 
have  no  acquaintance  at  present  but  the  Bramstons. 
Lady  Bridges  drinks  at  the  Cross  Bath,  her  son  at  the 
Hot,  and  Louisa  is  going  to  bathe.  Dr.  Parry  seems  to  be 
half  starving  Mr.  Bridges,  for  he  is  restricted  to  much 
such  a  diet  as  James's  bread,  water  and  meat,  and  is  never 
to  eat  so  much  of  that  as  he  wishes,  and  he  is  to  walk 
a  great  deal  —  walk  till  he  drops,  I  believe  —  gout  or  no 
gout.  It  really  is  to  that  purpose. 

I  have  not  exaggerated. 

Charming  weather  for  you  and  me,  and  the  travellers, 
and  everybody.  You  will  take  your  walk  this  afternoon, 
and  .  .  . 

Dame  Dorothy  Browne  (Sir  Thomas  Browne's  lady) 
gives  postscript  news  of  the  health  and  well-being 
of  Master  Tommy  Browne,  her  grandson  xc>  *o 

I 

Aug.  29  [1678] 

DEARE   SONNE,  — .  .  .  I   bless   God  your  Tomy   is 
very  well  ;  goose  to  scolle,  and  is  a  very  good  boy, 
and  delights  his  grandfather  when  hee  comes  home. 

II 

June  28  [1679?] 

DEARE  DAUGHTER,  —  .  .  .  Wee  dayly  wish  for  the 
new  cloths  ;  all  our  linen  being  worne  out  but  shefts, 
and  Tomey  would  give  all  his  stock  to  see  his  briches. 
I  bless  God  wee  ar  all  well  as  I  hope  you  ar.  Tomey  pre- 
sents his  dutty,  your  sisters  all  love  and  services.  — You* 
affectionate  mother,  DOROTHY  BROWNE 

73 


Tommy   Browne's  Puppet  Show 

ill 

July  5  [1679] 

HPOMEY   have   receved   his   cloues,   and  is  much   de- 
-L      lighted,  and  sends  you  and  his  mother  and  grand- 
mother   dutty    and  thanckes,  and  meanes   to   war  them 
carefully. 

IV 

Novemb.  vii.  [1679] 

DEARE  DAUGHTER,  — I  thanckGod  for  your  latter, 
and  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  my  Tomey  returne  in 
helth   though  ever  so  durty :  hee  knows  fullars  earth  will 
cleane  all.     I  besich  God  of  his  mercy  blesse  you  all. — 
Your  aifectinat  mothar,  DOROTHY  BROWNE 

V 

Sept.  6  [1680] 

I  BLESS  God  wee  all  continow  wel,  and  Tomey 
present  his  dutty  to  you  and  his  fathar,  and  give 
you  many  thanks  for  your  touken.  Hee  did  thinke  to 
wright  him  selfe.  Hee  is  now  a  very  good  boy  for  his 
boak,  I  can  assuer  you,  and  delights  to  read  to  his  grand- 
father and  I,  when  he  corns  from  schole.  God  of  his 
mercy  bless  you  all.  —  Your  affectinat  mothar, 

DOROTHY  BROWNE 

VI 

Feb.  xiii.  [1681-2] 

YOUR  Tomey  grows  a  stout  fellow,   I   hope  you  will 
com  and  see  him  this  svmmor,   hee   is   in    great 
expextion  of  a  tumbler  you  must  send  him  for  his  popet 
show,  a  punch  he  has  and  his  wife,  and  a  straw  king  and 
quen,  and  ladies  of  honor,  and  all  things  but  a  tumbler, 
which  this  town  cannot  aford :     it  is  a  wodin  fellow  that 
turns  his  heles  over  his  head.  .  .  . 
74 


IV 

THE   GRAND    STYLE 

The  Swan  of  Lichfield  greets  the  Ladies  of  Llangollen 

(To  the  Right  Hon.  Lady  Eleanor  Butler,  and 
Miss  Ponsonby) 

LICHFIELD,  April  24,  1798 

'T^HE  frame  for  Honora's  exact,  though  accidental, 
-L  resemblance  in  the  print  of  Romney's  Serena  read- 
ing by  candle  light,  is  at  length  arrived.  I  dare  believe 
my  charming  friends  will  think  the  figure,  countenance 
and  features  express  the  sweetness,  intelligence  and 
grace,  with  which  the  strains,  honoured  by  their  mutual 
partiality,  invest  the  fair  friend  of  my  youth. 

You  must  each  have  been  deeply  disquieted  by  the 
miserable  scenes  which  have  been  acted  in  your  native 
Ireland  since  I  had  last  the  honour  to  address  you. 
None  of  your  particular  friends  are,  I  trust,  on  the  dire 
list  of  those  who  have  fallen  the  victims  of  its  assassina- 
tions. Had  my  gallant  friend,  the  murdered  Colonel 
St.  George,  the  happiness  of  your  acquaintance? — Of 
him  at  least  you  must  well  know,  from  your  intimacy 
with  his  lovely  and  accomplished  sister-in-law. 
75 


Miss  Seward  improves  Fenelon 

My  Telemachus  has  taken  a  snail's  walk  since  I  gave 
myself  the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you.  Two  mornings 
of  leisure,  the  only  ones  I  could  obtain  in  the  interim, 
produced  the  enclosed  extract.  You  have  heard  me  say, 
that  I  could  scarcely  ever  persuade  myself  to  admit  the 
Muses,  in  exclusion  of  any  social  or  epistolary  duty  or 
pleasure.  Small,  therefore,  with  connections  and  corre- 
spondence so  numerous,  is  the  probability  that  I  shall 
ever  finish  an  epic  poem. 

You  will  perceive  that  Fe"nelon's  Telemachus  forms  as 
yet  but  the  mere  basis  of  this  attempted  work-,  but  I 
conclude,  that  when  the  prince,  in  what  will  form  my 
third  book,  narrates  his  own  adventures,  I  must  be 
more  indebted  to  the  prose  composition.  Whether  those 
incidents,  not  very  interesting  from  Fenelon's  pen,  are 
capable  of  receiving  poetic  spirit  and  animation  from 
mine,  remains  to  be  tried.  If  I  retain  my  excursive 
manner  of  going  over  the  ground,  there  will  be  sufficient 
length  for  an  epic  poem,  without  pursuing  the  long  train 
of  less  animated  events  that  ensues  after  Telemachus 
and  Mentor  quit  Calypso's  island.  Homer  follows  not 
Achilles  when  he  leaves  the  ruins  of  Troy ;  and  if  Virgil 
had  not  followed  tineas  after  he  left  Carthage,  his  poem, 
though  less  complete,  would  have  been  more  interesting. 
After  the  death  of  Dido  I  yawned  through  the  remainder; 
read  it  once  as  a  task,  and  never  since  looked  into  the 
pages  beyond  that  epoch. 

Ah  !  dearest  ladies,  how  groundless  has  the  assertion 
proved  on  which  every  one  relied,  that  Duncan's  victory 
threw  the  perils  of  invasion  at  a  wide  distance  !  —  but  I 
will  not  pursue  the  alarming  subject. 

This  day  a  summer's  sun  warmly  gilds  the  fields,  the 
gardens,  and  the  groves,  now  diffusing  fragrance,  and 
bursting  into  bloom.  Fresh  and  undulating  breezes  from 


Scenery  at  Lichfield 

the  east  lured  me  into  my  drawing-room,  having  placed 
in  its  lifted  sash  the  ^olian  harp.  It  is,  at  this  instant, 
warbling  through  all  the  varieties  of  the  harmonic  chords. 
This  apartment  looks  upon  a  small  lawn,  gently  sloping 
upwards.  Till  this  spring,  it  was  shrubbery  to  the  edge 
of  the  grassy  terrace  on  its  summit;  but  I  have  lately 
covered  it  with  a  fine  turf,  sprinkled  with  cypresses, 
junipers,  and  laurels.  It  is  bordered  on  the  right  hand 
by  tall  laburnums,  lilacks,  and  trees  of  the  Gelder  rose, 

" throwing  up,  'mid  trees  of  darker  leaf, 

Its  silver  globes,  light  as  the  foamy  surf, 
Which  the  wind  severs  from  the  broken  wave." 

Beyond  this  little  lawny  elevation,  the  wall  which 
divides  its  terrace  from  the  sweet  valley  it  overlooks,  is 
not  visible.  These  windows  command  the  loveliest  part 
of  that  valley,  and  only  its  first  field  is  concealed  by  the 
sloping  swell  of  the  fore-ground. 

The  vale  is  scarcely  half  a  mile  across,  bounded,  basin- 
iike,  by  a  semicircle  of  gentle  hills,  luxuriantly  foliaged. 
There  is  a  lake  in  its  bosom,  and  a  venerable  old  church, 
with  its  grey  and  moss-grown  tower  on  the  water's  edge. 
Left  of  that  old  church,  on  the  rising  ground  beyond, 
stands  an  elegant  villa  half  shrouded  in  its  groves ;  and, 
to  the  right  below,  on  the  bank  of  the  lake,  another  villa 
with  its  gardens.  The  as  yet  azure  waters  are  but  little 
intercepted  by  the  immense  and  very  ancient  willow  that 
stands  opposite  these  windows  in  the  middle  of  the  vale; 
that  willow,  whose  height  and  dimensions  are  the  wonder 
of  naturalists.  The  centre  of  the  lake  gleams  through 
its  wide-spread  branches,  and  it  appears  on  each  side  like 
a  considerable  river,  from  its  boundaries  being  concealed. 

On  the  right,  one  of  our  streets  runs  from  the  town  to 
the  water,  interspersed  with  trees  and  gardens.  It  looks 
77 


"  Vernal  Luxury  " 

like  an  umbraged  village,  and  is  all  we  see  from  hence 
of  the  city,  so  that  nothing  can  be  more  quiet  and  rural 
than  the  landscape.  It  is  less  beautiful  in  summer  than 
in  spring,  from  the  weeds  that  sprout  up  in  the  lake,  and 
from  the  set  which  partially  creeps  upon  its  surface. 

In  my  youth,  it  was  always  clear  —  but  it  is  said  that, 
some  fifteen  years  back,  two  of  our  gormandizing  alder- 
men took  a  boat  and  sowed  it  with  water-lilies  to  preserve 
the  fish.  The  mischief  is  irreparable,  since  the  cleansing 
it  receives  every  autumn  only  procures  transparence  till 
the  sun  of  middle  summer  enables  the  deep-rooted  weeds 
to  defy  the  scythe  and  the  shovel. 

What  shall  I  say  for  the  slovenliness  of  the  inclosed 
transcripts? — Thus  you  behold  my  incorrigible  pen 
sinning,  from  time  to  time,  against  the  fairness  of  tran- 
scription,—  sinning  and  confessing,  like  a  frail  papist, 
and  repenting  without  amendment. 

What  lovely  weather!  Our  valley  is  bursting  into 
bloom,  and  the  fruit  trees  of  a  large  public  garden  in  one 
part  of  it,  now  in  full  blossom,  presents  a  grove  of  silver, 
amidst  the  lively  and  tender  green  of  the  fields  and 
hedgerows.  Alas!  the  melancholy  of  the  apprehensive 
heart  is  rather  increased  than  abated  by  this  vernal  luxury. 
It  seems  but  as  gay  garlands  on  the  neck  of  a  victim. 

In  every  frame  of  mind,  I  remain,  dearest  ladies,  etc. 

The  Swan  of  Lichfield  word-paints    x^      -^>      <^ 
(To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Parr) 

SCARBOROUGH,//^  27,  1793 

DISEASE  gloomed,  and    made  long  my  wintry   and 
vernal  hours,  since  I  had  the  honour  and  delight 
of  conversing  with   you   in  Warwickshire.     Dr.   Darwin 

78 


"  The  Smiles  of  Hygeia  " 

enjoined  that  I  should  go  to  Buxton  in  June,  pass  some 
weeks  there,  and  then  travel  onward  to  the  North  Coast, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  sea-bathing.  Inexpressibly  do  I 
regret  this  watery  discipline,  whose  necessity  has  de- 
prived me  of  the  power  to  receive  that  highly  gratify- 
ing visit  from  Dr.  Parr,  the  hope  of  which  had  been 
so  precious. 

Travelling  thus  far  to  obtain  the  smiles  of  Hygeia,  I 
am  ordered  to  wait  upon  her  naiads  on  the  ocean  brim, 
during  a  period  of  equal  length  with  that  on  which  I 
courted  those  who  administer  at  her  soft  fountains  in 
Derbyshire.  Having  promised  to  pause  on  my  way  home 
with  some  friends  of  my  infancy  and  youth  in  Yorkshire, 
it  must  be  the  second  week  in  September  ere  I  can  return 
to  Lichfield.  I  fear  your  attention  to  your  pupils  will 
not  suffer  me  then  to  enjoy  that  pleasure  of  which  this 
reluctant  excursion  has  deprived  me.  Surely  you  could 
not  doubt  my  being  absent  from  Lichfield,  when  you 
waited  in  vain  for  an  acknowledgment,  so  instantly 
due.  May  I  hope  to  see  you  during  the  Christmas 
recess?  Whenever  you  shall  again  extend  to  me  an 
expectation  thus  flattering,  I  will  avoid  every  interfering 
scheme. 

My  health  is  better  than  it  was  in  the  winter  and 
spring,  though  I  am  still  often  indisposed.  My  obliga- 
tions are  perhaps  more  to  the  warmth  of  summer  for  this 
amendment,  than  to  my  libations  from  the  naiads,  and 
immersion  in  their  waves,  than  to  the  attractions  and 
repulsions  of  stranger  intercourse ;  or  even  to  the  dearer 
society  it  has  afforded  me  with  long  absent  friends. 
When  the  spirit  of  youth  has  evaporated,  fatigues  are  not 
easily  recompensed  to  the  languid,  or  broken  habits  to 
the  stationary.  Often,  in  this  absence  from  our  little  city, 
do  I  look  back  with  home-sick  eyes  to  my  umbrageous 
79 


Charlotte  Corday 

retreat  beneath  its  spires,  especially  when  the  swart  star 
glares. 

This  gay  and  busy  shore  has  considerable  picturesque 
beauty,  as  perhaps  you  are  visually  conscious ;  but  I 
regret  that  its  seas  have  slept  since  my  arrival  in  mirror 
calmness,  and  would  have  thanked  the  ruder  winds  to 
have  lashed  them  into  sublimity. 

The  pleasure  of  Mr.  Dewes', —  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Grenville's,  and  Miss  Delabere's  society,  allured  me  hither 
from  my  purposed  residence,  on  the  more  retired  coast 
of  Bridlington,  twenty  miles  from  hence.  Amiable  Lord 
and  Lady  LifFord  are  of  their  party.  My  daily  visits  to 
them  have  constituted  the  chief  though  not  the  sole 
social  charm  of  this  bustling  scene ;  yet  alas  !  it  has  been 
often  darkened  by  concern,  to  see  *  dear  Mr.  Dewes  so 
languid  and  out  of  health.  We  hope  and  trust,  however, 
that  his  complaints  are  not  dangerous. 

That  interesting  group  leave  Scarborough  on  Monday, 
and  therefore  I  have  promised  to  meet  my  old  friends  of 
this  country  the  ensuing  week  at  Bridlington,  if  lodgings 
can  be  procured  for  us  there. 

Do  you  not  admire  this  second  Judith,  the  young  fair 
one  of  Normandy,  who  has  slain  the  bloody  dictator  at 
Paris,  without  waiting  for  his  intoxication,  or  his  slumber, 
to  give  her  courage  for  the  blow  ? 

Adieu,  dear  and  honoured  Sir.  I  dare  assure  myself, 
you  rejoice  that  our  political  horizon  is  cleared  of  that 
lurid  turbidity  with  which  it  scowled  when  we  met  in 
Warwickshire. 


80 


Invoked  Sublimity 

The  Swan  of  Lichfield  contemplates  the  ocean  *o  *^y 
(To  Mr.  Saville) 

SCARBOROUGH,  July  29,  1793 

THIS  morning  the  dear  party,  vanishing  from  the 
cliff,  dissolved  for  me  the  magnetism  of  Scar- 
borough. I  passed  almost  the  whole  of  yesterday  with 
them.  Mr.  Dewes,  inquiring  after  you,  most  kindly 
bids  me  say,  that  he  sincerely  rejoices  in  the  benefit  your 
health  has  received  from  your  excursion  to  Wey mouth. 
He  does  not  think  himself  better;  but  I  trust  he  is 
mistaken.  O!  justly  do  you  say,  that  we  cannot  afford 
to  lose  such  men,  so  thinly  sown  in  this  thick-swarming 
world. 

That  I  am  most  truly  glad  of  the  renovated  health 
you  have  imbibed  on  the  ocean's  edge,  you  surely  will 
not  doubt ;  nor  that  I  sympathise  with  every  good  that 
is  ordained  you,  with  every  joy  that  you  feel.  I  praise 
you  for  resisting  the  sailing  temptations,  for  not  trusting 
the  flattery  of  the  summer-seas,  which  has  so  often 
proved  fatal  where  the  security  was  no  less  apparent. 

Whenever  the  wind  blows  from  the  east  at  this  port, 
however  calmly  it  may  breathe  on  shore,  the  sea  runs 
high.  All  yesterday  it  had  a  large  portion  of  the  sub- 
limity I  had  invoked.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down 
the  right-hand  sands,  a  small  promontory  juts  out ;  upon 
its  topmost  bank,  about  twenty  yards  high,  the  chalybeate 
springs  arise ;  and  there  also  a  fort  is  constructed,  with 
parapet  walls,  to  which  we  ascend  by  steps.  At  high- 
water,  the  sea  encircles  this  promontory,  and  lashes  its 
rocks. 

Last  night,  at  eight  o'clock,  as  we  walked  upon  the 
cliff,  we  saw  the  waves  of  a  sublimely  agitated  sea  dashing 
G  81 


Miss  Seward's  Rage  for  the  Terrific 

and  bounding  up  the  sides  of  the  fort,  their  spray  flying 
over  its  parapets.  The  tide  was  then  on  the  turn,  and 
we  were  told,  that,  in  about  an  hour,  we  might  walk  to 
the  promontory,  by  keeping  close  to  the  base  of  the  rocks, 
and  attain  the  elevation  before  the  waves  had  ceased 
to  lash  and  clamber  up  its  walls.  Nobody  but  myself 
being  inclined  to  venture,  I  went  home  to  undress, 
resolved  to  taste,  amidst  the  incumbent  gloom  of  a  very 
lowering  night,  a  scene  congenial  to  my  taste  for  the 
terrible  graces.  Requesting  the  stout  arm  of  Mr.  Dewes's 
servant,  I  began  with  him  my  sombre  expedition.  As  I 
passed  along  the  sands,  the  tide  twice  left  its  white  surf 
upon  my  feet ;  and  the  vast  curve  of  those  fierce  waves, 
that  burst  down  with  deafening  roar,  scarce  three  yards 
from  me,  sufficiently  gratified  my  rage  for  the  terrific. 

We  found  the  lower  steps  of  the  fort  inaccessible,  from 
the  waters  not  having  yet  receded  from  them ;  but,  with 
some  difficulty,  climbing  behind  the  rocks,  I  got  upon  a 
level  with  the  sixth  step,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  ascend 
the  eminence.  By  this  time,  the  last  gloom  of  the  night 
had  fallen,  and  the  white  foam  of  the  thundering  waters 
made  their  "  darkness  visible.1'  It  seemed  scarce  pos- 
sible that  an  unconscious  element  could  wear  such  horrid 
appearances  of  living  rage.  Each  billow  seemed  a 
voraginous  monster,  as  it  came  roaring  on,  and  dashed 
itself  against  the  repelling  walls.  The  spray  of  each 
flashing  wave  flew  over  my  head,  and  wet  me  on  its 
descent.  The  pealing  waters,  louder  than  thunder,  made 
it  impossible  for  me  or  the  servant  to  hear  each  other 
speak.  My  own  maid  would  not  venture  to  accompany 
me  on  an  expedition  of  such  seeming  peril.  I  stood  at 
least  half  an  hour  on  the  wild  promontory's  top,  almost 
totally  encircled  by  the  dark  and  furious  main.  It  was 
half  past  ten  when  I  returned  to  Lord  Lifford's,  to  take 
82 


An  Umbrageous  Dale 

my  leave  of  the  party,  and  to  acknowledge  the  infinitely 
kind  attentions  with  which  they  had  honoured  me. 

We  passed  Thursday  last  in  a  beautiful,  a  richly 
umbrageous,  and  romantic  dale,  about  seven  miles  from 
hence ;  the  rival,  in  picturesque  graces,  of  most  which 
adorn  the  Peak  of  Derbyshire,  with  only  one  inferiority, 
its  water.  The  Vale  of  Hackness  boasts  only  a  tolerably 
broad  and  gurgling  brook,  which  presumptuously  assumes 
the  name  of  Darrent.  Screened  by  overhanging  alders, 
it  winds  through  the  bosom  of  the  glens,  and  is  scarce 
seen,  except  on  its  brink ;  but,  from  the  hills  which 
encircle  them,  we  see  the  ocean,  covered  with  ships, 
stretching  over  the  magnificent  woods  of  Rainsford,  that 
curtain  the  mountains  with  lavish  luxuriance. 

Mr.  Dewes,  and  Master  and  Miss  Hewit,  the  son  and 
niece  of  Lord  Lifford,  and  myself,  went  to  Hackness 
in  Lord  Lifford 's  coach ;  graceful  and  amiable  Lady 
Lifford,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Granville,  on  horseback.  The 
village,  "  marked  with  a  little  spire,"  nestles  deep  in  the 
vale :  near  it  a  small  rural  inn,  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  numerous  parties  which  resort  from  Scarborough, 
to  enjoy  a  scene  of  such  striking  contrast  with  the 
uncurtained  beach,  the  monotonous  ocean,  and  the 
crowded  town,  whose  red  houses  run  up  the  cliffs,  and 
parch  in  the  noontide  suns. 

At  this  petit  inn  we  dined  in  great  plenty  and  comfort ; 
our  eggs  and  bacon,  our  cold  mutton  and  pease,  our 
roast  fowl,  and  our  gooseberry-pie,  acquiring  a  relish 
from  the  ride,  and  previous  ramble  in  the  dale;  relish 
which  seldom  seasons  the  viands  of  a  pompous  board. 

We  drank  tea  on  the  shady  brim  of  the  stream  that 
huddles  through  a  rocky  channel,  and  with  its  liquid 
notes,  assists  the  waving  alders  and  taller  beeches  in 
tempering  the  heats  of  the  day. 

83 


The  Wingfield  Head-Dresses 

It  was  a  scene  and  a  society  to  soothe  every  latent 
discontent  of  the  heart,  and,  as  Milton  says  of  Eden,  to 
"  chace  all  sorrow  but  despair." 

I  dine  with  the  Wingfield  party  to-day,  and  accompany 
them  to  the  ball  at  night.  I  went  to  the  Friday  assembly 
with  Lady  Lifford  and  Mrs.  Granville.  The  present 
fashion  of  head-dress,  unless  tempered  as  it  was  by  the 
hand  of  taste  on  Lady  Lifford,  Mrs.  Granville,  and  Miss 
Wingfield,  has  an  undoing  influence  upon  youth  and 
beauty.  The  Lady  L s  had  disposed  their  hair  ex- 
actly to  resemble  the  lank  straight  locks  of  a  methodist  par- 
son and  wound  it  round  with  something  they  called  turban, 
scarce  resembling  the  Turkish  head-dress,  which  is  very 
graceful,  and  which  Lady  Lifford's,  Mrs.  Granville's,  and 
Miss  Wingfield's,  as  I  observed  before  in  my  exception, 

did  very  much  resemble ;  the  Lady  L s  looked  like 

diseased  heads  bound  up  in  towels.  They  were  extremely 
unjust  to  their  personal  attractions.  People  who  are  of 
rank  to  lead  the  fashions,  are  either  accountable  for  the 
false  "taste  of  ungraceful  invention,  or  for  grovelling 
acquiescence,  in  following  the  bad  taste  of  others.  Lady 
Susan  is  finely  shaped,  and  dances  accurately ;  but  Lady 
Georgiana  unites  to  all  the  skill  and  variety  of  step,  the 
most  joyous  and  liberal  grace  of  the  head  and  arms.  — 
Adieu. 


84 


V 
WITH  A  SPICE 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle  tells  all  the  news     "^     *^>     o 

I 
(To  T.  Carlyle,  Scotsbrig  l) 

CLIFTON,  August  29,  1837 

DEAREST  LOVE,  —  I  have  been  too  long  waiting  for 
certainties ;  hithering  and  thithering  being  a  condition 
under  which  I  find  it  almost  impossible  to  write,  or  in- 
deed to  do  anything  except  fret  myself  to  fiddlestrings. 
What  I  generally  do  in  such  cases  is  to  shape  out  a 
decision  with  all  dispatch  for  myself ,  and  leave  the  others 
to  welter  on  in  their  own  fashion.  Accordingly,  when  I 
found  on  our  arrival  at  Clifton  that  it  was  all  in  the  wind 
whether  we  should  stay  there  one  week  or  two  or  three, 
and  whether  we  should  return  straight  to  London  or  by 
Brighton,  or  by  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or  first  making  a  "  run 
over  to  Dublin,"  I  immediately  announced  my  intention  of 
descending  by  Parachute,  and  was  only  prevented  from 
carrying  it  out  by  humane  consideration  for  the  parties  in 
the  Balloon,  where  there  was  evidently  going  to  be  an 

1  Is  gone  on  a  tour  with  the  elder  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sterling,  while  I 
am  in  Scotland  rusticating  and  vegetating.  —  T.  C. 


"His    Whirlwindship " 

alarming  explosion  in  case  of  my  departure ;  Mrs.  Sterling 
having  set  her  heart  for  a  visit  of  some  length  to  the 
Bartons,  and  his  Whirlwindship  finding  the  whole  Barton 
generation  "  creatures  without  stimulus,"  whom  he  was 
desirous  to  cut  and  run  from,  by  "  feeling  it  his  duty  to  see 
poor  Mrs.  Carlyle  'ome."  His  secret  purpose  was  evidently 
to  take  himself  and  me  back  in  the  carriage,  and  leave  Mrs. 
S.  to  follow  as  she  could ;  and  this  I  felt  would  have  been  a 
very  ungracious  proceeding  towards  that  good  soul,  who 
treats  me  with  such  kindness  and  consideration.  I  now 
perceive  the  use  my  company  is  of  to  them  both,  better 
than  I  did  when  we  set  out :  I  furnish,  as  it  were,  the  sugar 
and  ginger,  which  makes  the  alkali  of  the  one  and  the 
tartaric  acid  of  the  other  effervesce  into  a  somewhat  more 
agreeable  draught ;  for,  "  the  effervescing  of  these  people  ! " 
To  say  the  least  "  it  is  very  absurd  ! "  But  I  shall  keep 
all  my  stock  of  biographic  notices  to  enliven  our  winter 
evenings.  Meanwhile  you  are  to  know  that  we  left  Malvern 
for  Clifton  a  week  ago,  all  of  us  with  very  dry  eyes. 

Mr.  Sterling,  on  finding  that  certain  lords  who'  smiled 
deceitful  at  the  Carlton  Club,  were  absolutely  inaccessible 
at  the  Foley  Arms,  suddenly  discovered  that  your 
beautiful  scenery  was  a  great  humbug,  as  you  had  only 
"to  strip  the  soil  a  foot  deep  and  it  would  be  a  vile 
black  mass."  Mrs.  Sterling,  in  her  querulous,  qualifying, 
about  it  and  about  it  way,  doubted  whether  it  was  whole- 
some to  overlook  such  a  flat,  "  not  but  what  it  was  very 
well  to  have  seen  for  once,  or  if  there  was  any  necessity 
for  living  there,  of  course  one  would  not  object,"  etc., 
etc. :  —  and,  for  me  poverina,  from  the  first  moment  I 
set  my  eyes  on  the  place,  I  foresaw  that  it  would  prove  a 
failure ;  that  it  would  neither  make  me  a  convert  to 
Nature,  nor  find  me  in  a  new  nervous  system.  Every 
day  of  our  stay  there  I  arose  with  a  headache,  and  my 
86 


Nature    a    Show  —  and    Bore 

nights  were  unspeakable;  every  day  I  felt  more  em- 
phatically that  Nature  was  an  intolerable  bore.  Do  not 
misconstrue  me,  —  genuine,  unsophisticated  Nature,  I 
grant  you,  is  all  very  amiable  and  harmless ;  but 
beautiful  Nature,  which  man  has  exploited,  as  a  Reviewer 
does  a  work  of  genius,  making  it  a  peg  to  hang  his  own 
conceits  upon,  to  enact  his  Triumph  der  Empfindsamkeit  * 
in,  —  beautiful  Nature,  which  you  look  out  upon  from 
pea-green  arbours,  which  you  dawdle  about  in  on  the 
backs  of  donkeys,  and  where  you  are  haunted  with  an 
everlasting  smell  of  roast  meat  —  all  that  I  do  declare 
to  be  the  greatest  of  bores,  and  I  would  rather  spend  my 
days  amidst  acknowledged  brick  houses  and  paved  streets, 
than  in  any  such  fools1  paradise. 

So  entirely  unheimlich  I  felt  myself,  that  the  day  I  got 
your  Letter  I  cried  over  it  for  two  or  three  hours.  In  other 
more  favourable  circumstances,  I  should  have  recognised 
the  tone  of  sadness  that  ran  all  through  it,  as  the  simple 
effect  of  a  tiresome  journey,  and  a  dose  of  physic  at  the 
end ;  but,  read  at  Malvern,  with  headache  and  ennui  for 
interpreters !  —  Alas !  what  could  I  do  but  fling  myself  on 
my  bed  and  cry  myself  sick  ?  I  said  to  myself  you  were 
no  better  than  when  you  left  me,  and  all  this  absence  was 
gone  for  nothing.  I  wanted  to  kiss  you  into  something 
like  cheerfulness,  and  the  length  of  a  kingdom  was  between 
us,  —  and  if  it  had  not  —  the  probabilities  are  that,  with 
the  best  intentions,  I  should  have  quarrelled  with  you 
rather.  Poor  men  and  poor  women !  what  a  time  they  have 
in  this  world,  by  destiny  and  their  own  deserving.  But  as 
Mr.  Bradfute  used  to  say,  "  tell  us  something  we  do  not 
know." 

Well,  then,  it  is  an  absolute  fact  that  his  Whirlwind- 
ship  and  I  rode  to  the  top  of  Malvern  Hill,  each  on  a 
1  Goethe's  Dramas,  Triumph  of  Sensibility. 

87 


Malvern    Amenities 

Jive  donkey !  Just  figure  it !  with  a  Welsh  lad  whipping 
us  up  from  behind ;  for  they  were  the  slowest  of  donkeys, 
though  named  in  defiance  of  all  probability,  Fly  and 
Lively.  "  The  Devil  confound  your  donkeys !  "  exclaimed 
my  vivacious  companion  (who  might  really,  I  think,  "  but 
for  the  honour  of  the  thing,"  and  perhaps  some  small 
diminution  of  the  danger  of  bursting  his  lungs,  have  as 
well  walked!)  "they  are  so.  stupidly  stubborn  that  you 
might  as  well  beat  on  a  stick."  "  And  isn't  it  a  good 
thing  they  be  stubborn,  Sir?"  said  the  lad,  "  as  being, 
you  see,  that  they  have  no  sense ;  if  they  wasn't  stubborn 
they  might  be  for  taking  down  the  steep,  and  we  wants 
no  accidents,  Sir."  "  Now,"  said  I,  "  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  perceive  why  Conservatives  are  so  stupidly 
stubborn ;  stubbornness,  it  seems,  is  a  succedaneum  for 
sense"  —  A  flash  of  indignation  —  then  in  a  soft  tone, 
"  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Carlyle,  you  would  be  a  vast  deal 
more  amiable,  if  you  were  not  so  damnably  clever ! " 
This  is  a  fair  specimen  of  our  talk  at  Malvern  from 
dewy  morn  to  balmy  eve.  My  procedure  at  Worcester 
(where  we  passed  two  days,  and  whence  I  sent  a 
Newspaper)  was  unexpected  and  disappointing  in  the 
extreme.  I  walked  into  the  house  of  the  illustrious 
Archdeacon  along  a  lengthy  passage,  down  two  steps 
into  an  antique-looking  drawing-room  or  suite  of 
drawing-rooms ;  without  giving  proof  of  being  anything 
out  of  the  common.  I  cast  my  nota-bene  eyes  over  the 
man :  —  a  large  portly  figure,  belonging  to  the  rotund 
school,  the  very  beau  ideal  of  an  old .  Abbot,  with  a 
countenance  full  of  twinkling  intelligence  and  gregarious 
good  humour,  having  a  high  metallic  tone  of  voice,  and 
a  whisking  suddenness  of  movement,  accompanied  by 
a  peculiar  fling  of  the  coat-skirts,  which  reminded  me 
forcibly  of  the  Archivarius  Lindhorst.  I  also  flung  a 


The    Archidiaconal    Bed 

cursory  glance  on  a  table,  where  a  massive  lunch  was 
spread  out,  such  as  realised  one's  sublimest  conceptions 
of  a  Convent  refectory ;  and  then  without  more  said  or 
done,  I  pitched  myself  into  a  fluffy,  snow-white  bed, 
which  was  shown  me  as  mine;  where  I  lay  twenty-four 
hours,  not  out  of  sheer  contradiction,  but  because  I 
really  could  no  longer  hold  myself  erect.  In  vain  the. 
prim  Archdeconian  Perpetua  came  at  stated  intervals 
to  know  if  I  wanted  anything?  receiving  always  for 
answer,  "  To  be  let  alone  "  ;  and  in  vain  the  Whirlwind 
himself  came  at  intervals  not  stated,  to  ask  in  a  tone 
of  deep  tho1  loud  pathos  (for  it  was  from  outside  the 
door)  "if  I  believed  that  he  was  exceedingly  sorry," 
receiving  also  one  unvarying  answer,  "  Yes,  yes !  " 
My  headache  refused  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  either 
charmer  till  it  had  run  its  course.  It  was  indeed  a 
strange  preternatural  night,  the  first  I  passed  in  that 
Prebendary  Establishment,  right  under  the  stroke  (it 
seemed  to  me)  of  the  great  cathedral  clock,  which  strikes 
even  the  quarters,  haunted  by  the  images  of  the  large 
Archdeaconess  and  large  pigeon-pie  I  had  seen  below, 
and  surrounded  by  queer  old  cabinets  and  gigantic 
china  bowls ;  —  all  which  taken  together  had  to  my 
over-excited  imagination  a  cast  of  magic  !  Especially 
in  the  dead  of  night,  with  a  rushlight  dimly  lighting 
the  chamber;  and  betwixt  sleeping  and  waking.  I 
repeatedly  sprang  up  in  a  panic,  with  my  head  quite 
mystified  between  this  Worcester  Archdeacon  and  the 
German  Archivarius,  and  could  by  no  possibility  decide 
whether  Archdeacon  Singleton  was  not  also  the  father 
of  a  green  serpent  and  could  make  his  face  into  a  bronze 
knocker!  Worthy  man,  when  he  welcomed  me  anew  next 
day  with  the  broadest  smiles,  he  little  suspected  what 
strange  thoughts  I  had  had  of  him. 


"Lack    of  Stimulus  " 

But  I  have  quite  miscalculated  my  distance,  and  have 
left  no  room  for  my  travels'  history  since.  The  loss 
will  not  be  material.  Suffice  it  to  say,  we  came  from 
Malvern  to  Chepstow  all  in  one  day,  besides  "  doing " 
Eastnor  Castle,  Goodrich  Castle,  Tintern  Abbey,  and 
Chepstow  Castle ;  and  the  next,  on  to  Clifton  ;  thoroughly 
tired  body  and  soul.  We  are  in  lodgings  here :  I  have 
a  quiet  room,  and  sleep  better.  Every  day  we  dine 
with  the  Bartons,  the  kindest  people  to  dine  with  one 
could  wish ;  but  as  he  says,  there  is  a  lack  of  stimulus. 
The  Brother  that  is  returned  from  India  is  the  most 
wonderful  compound  appearance  of  Cavaignac  and  — 
Mr.  Bradfute :  ecco  la  combinazionel^  'And  now  here 
is  surprising  news  for  you  :  —  John  Sterling  is  to  be  back 
in  London,  with  his  Wife  and  her  little  ones,  about  the 
1 2th.  He  himself  having  turned  towards  Maderia,  in 
consequence  of  cholera  abroad ;  and  the  family  to 
remain  at  Knightsbridge ;  which  I  do  not  think  his 
Father  half  likes.  Poor  John  is  really  a  little  flighty, 
"after  all." 

I  fondly  hope  to  quit  Clifton  the  end  of  this  present 
week ;  and  to  go  home  by  the  base  of  the  isosceles 
triangle,  which  the  Isle  of  Wight  makes  with  Clifton 
and  London,  instead  of  along  the  two  sides.  I  long 
for  home,  and  to  be  putting  in  order  for  your  coming. 
I  shall  send  you  a  Newspaper  immediately  on  my 
landing;  and  then  you  will  write  to  say  when.  O,  my 
Darling,  we  will  surely  be  better,  both  of  us,  there  again ; 
effervescing  even:  —  don^t  you  think  so?  I  made  no 

1  Curious  and  tragicomical  indeed ;  yet  conceivable  to  me ;  like 
that  of  a  sternly  sorrowful  leopard,  with  a  pitifully  ditto  hare! 
Cavaignac  is  Godfroi,  elder  Brother  of  Eugene,  subsequently 
President  of  the  French  Republic ;  Bradfute  is  the  old  Edinburgh 
Bookseller.  — T.  C. 

90 


Reading    for    an    Uncle 

"marg"  —  wrote  nothing  on  any  Newspaper, — it  must 
have  been  some  editorial  mark  of  Mr.  Sterling,  which 
I  had  not  noticed.  I  have  sent  you  Papers  from  every 
large  Town  where  I  have  been. 

I  have  kept  no  room  for  kind  messages.  Say  for  me 
all  that  you  know  I  would  wish  to  say.  I  saw  the  Craw- 
fords  at  Monmouth.  Mr.  C.  is  most  emphatic  for  another 
Course  of  Lectures  :  —  the  characters,  he  thought  a  most 
glorious  project.  I  have  no  doubt  but  you  will  find  an 
audience  prepared  to  be  enchanted  with  you,  whenever 
you  want  one.  —  The  Book  seems  to  be  much  more 
popular  than  I  ever  expected.  Archdeacon  Singleton 
finds  nothing  Radical  in  it! 

J.  W.  C.     (No  room  for  more). 

II 
(To  Miss  Helen  Welsh,  Liverpool) 

CHELSEA,  March  1843 

Y  DEAREST  HELEN,  — After  (in  Dumfries  and 
Galloway-Courier  phraseology)  "  taking  a  bird's- 
eye  view"  of  all  modern  literature,  I  am  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that,  to  find  a  book  exactly  suited  to  my 
uncle's  taste,  I  must  write  it  myself !  and,  alas,  that 
cannot  be  done  before  to-morrow  morning! 

La  Motte  Fouqu^'s  Magic  Ring  suggests  Geraldine 
(Jewsbury) .  "  Too  mystical !  My  uncle  detests  confusion 
of  ideas."  "Paul  de  Kock?  he  is  very  witty."  "Yes,  but 
also  very  indecent ;  and  my  uncle  would  not  relish 
indecencies  read  aloud  to  him  by  his  daughters."  "Oh  ! 
ah!  well!  Miss  Austen?"  "Too  washy;  water-gruel 
for  mind  and  body  at  the  same  time  were  too  bad." 
Timidly,  and  after  a  pause,  "  Do  you  think  he  could  stand 


M 


New  Books  in   1843 

Victor  Hugo's  Notre  Dame!"  The  idea  of  my  uncle 
listening  to  the  sentimental  monstrosities  of  Victor  Hugo! 
A  smile  of  scorn  was  this  time  all  my  reply.  But  in 
my  own  suggestions  I  have  been  hardly  more  fortunate. 
All  the  books  that  pretend  to  amuse  in  our  day  come, 
in  fact,  either  under  that  category,  which  you  except 
against,  "the  extravagant,  clown-jesting  sort,"  or  still 
worse,  under  that  of  what  I  should  call  the  galvanised- 
death's-head-grinning  sort.  There  seems  to  be  no  longer 
any  genuine  heart-felt  mirth  in  writers  of  books;  they 
sing  and  dance  still  vigour  eusement,  but  one  sees  always 
too  plainly  that  it  is  not  voluntarily,  but  only  for  halfpence ; 
and  for  halfpence  they  will  crack  their  windpipes,  and 
cut  capers  on  the  crown  of  their  heads,  poor  men  that 
they  are! 

I  bethink  me  of  one  book,  however,  which  we  have 
lately  read  here,  bearing  a  rather  questionable  name  as 
a  book  for  my  uncle,  but,  nevertheless,  I  think  he  would 
like  it.  It  is  called  Passages  from  the  Life  of  a  Radical, 
by  Samuel  Bamford,  a  silk-weaver  of  Middleton.  He 
was  one  of  those  who  got  into  trouble  during  the 
Peterloo  time ;  and  the  details  of  what  he  then  saw  and 
suffered  are  given  with  a  simplicity,  an  intelligence,  and 
absence  of  everything  like  party  violence,  which  it  does  one 
good  to  fall  in  with,  especially  in  these  inflated  times. 

There  is  another  book  that  might  be  tried,  though  I 
am  not  sure  that  it  has  not  a  little  too  much  affinity  with 
water-gruel,  The  Neighbours,  a  domestic  novel  translated 
from  the  Swedish  by  Mary  Howitt.  There  is  a  "  Little 
Wife"  in  it,  with  a  husband,  whom  she  calls  "Bear," 
that  one  never  wearies  of,  although  they  never  say  or  do 
anything  in  the  least  degree  extraordinary. 

Geraldine  strongly  recommends  Stephens'  Incidents 
of  Travel  in  Egypt,  Arabia,  and  Petrea,  as  "  very  in- 
92 


Macready  in  Private  Life 

teresting  and  very  short."  Also  Waterton's  Wanderings 
in  South  America.  There  are  two  novels  of  Paul  de 
Kock  translated  into  English,  which  might  be  tried  at 
least  without  harm  done,  for  they  are  unexceptionable  in 
the  usual  sense  of  that  term,  the  Barber  of  Paris,  and 
Sister  Anne. 

I  have  read  the  last,  not  the  first,  and  I  dare  say  it 
would  be  very  amusing  for  anyone  who  likes  Gil  Bias 
and  that  sort  of  books ;  for  my  taste  it  does  not  get  on 
fast  enough. 

There!  enough  of  books  for  one  day.  Thank  you  for 
your  letter,  dear.  If  I  had  not  wee  angels  to  write  me 
consolatory  missives  at  present,  I  should  really  be  terribly 
ill  off.  '  My  maid  continues  highly  inefficient,  myself 
ditto ;  the  weather  complicates  everything ;  for  days 
together  not  a  soul  comes ;  and  then  if  the  sun  glimmers 
forth  a  whole  rush  of  people  breaks  in,  to  the  very  taking 
away  of  one's  breath ! 

Yesterday,  between  the  hours  of  three  and  five,  we  had 
old  Sterling,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Von  Glehen,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Macready,  John  Carlyle,  and  William  Cunningham. 
Geraldine  professed  to  be  mightily  taken  with  Mrs. 
Macready;  not  so  much  so  with  "William."  Poor  dear 
William  !  I  never  thought  him  more  interesting,  however. 
To  see  a  man  who  is  exhibiting  himself  every  night  on  a 
stage,  blushing  like  a  young  girl  in  a  private  room,  is  a 
beautiful  phenomenon  for  me.  His  wife  whispered  into 
my  ear,  as  we  sat  on  the  sofa  together,  "Do  you  know 
poor  William  is  in  a  perfect  agony  to-day  at  having  been 
brought  here  in  that  great-coat  ?  It  is  a  stage  great-coat, 
but  was  only  worn  by  him  twice ;  the  piece  it  was  made 
for  did  not  succeed,  but  it  was  such  an  expensive  coat,  I 
would  not  let  him  give  it  away ;  and  doesn't  he  look  well 
in  it  ? "  I  wish  Jeannie  had  seen  him  in  the  coat  — 
93 


Helen's  Red  Herring 


magnificent  fur  neck  and  sleeves,  and  such  frogs  on  the 
front.  He  did  look  well,  but  so  heartily  ashamed  of 
himself. 

Oh,  I  must  tell  you,  for  my  uncle's  benefit,  a  domestic 
catastrophe  that  occurred  last  week!  One  day,  after 
dinner,  I  heard  Helen  lighting  the  fire,  which  had  gone 
out,  in  the  room  above,  with  a  perfectly  unexampled  ven- 
geance; every  stroke  of  the  poker  seemed  an  individual 
effort  of  concentrated  rage.  What  ails  the  creatui^ 
now?  I  said  to  myself.  Who  has  incurred  her  sudden 
displeasure?  or  is  it  the  red  herring  she  had  for  dinner 
which  has  disagreed  with  her  stomach?  (for  in  the 
morning,  you  must  know,  when  I  was  ordering  the 
dinner,  she  had  asked,  might  she  have  a  red  herring? 
"  her  heart  had  been  set  upon  it  this  a  good  while  back  :  " 
and,  of  course,  so  modest  a  petition  received  an  unhesi- 
tating affirmative).  On  her  return  to  the  subterranean, 
the  same  hubbub  wild  arose  from  below,  which  had 
just  been  trying  my  nerves  from  above ;  and  when  she 
brought  up  the  tea-tray,  she  clanked  it  on  the  lobby- 
table,  as  if  she  were  minded  to  demolish  the  whole 
concern  at  one  fell  stroke.  I  looked  into  her  face 
inquiringly  as  she  entered  the  room,  and  seeing  it 
black  as  midnight  (morally,  that  is),  I  said  very  coolly, 
"  A  little  less  noise,  if  you  please ;  you  are  getting 
rather  loud  upon  us."  She  cast  up  her  eyes  with  the 
look  of  a  martyr  at  the  stake,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well, 
if  I  must  be  quiet,  I  must ;  but  you  little  know  my 
wrongs."  By-and-by  Geraldine  went  to  the  kitchen  for 
some  reason  ;  she  is  oftener  in  the  kitchen  in  one  day 
than  I  am  in  a  month,  but  that  is  irrelevant.  "Where 
is  the  cat?"  said  she  to  Helen;  "I  have  not  seen  her 
all  night."  She  takes  a  wonderful,  most  superfluous 
charge  of  the  cat,  as  of  everything  else  in  this  establish- 
94 


The  Cat's  Red  Herring 

ment.  "The  cat!"  said  Helen  grimly,  "I  have  all  butx 
killed  her.11  "  How?  "  said  Geraldine.  "  With  the  besom," 
replied  the  other.  "Why?  for  goodness'  sake."  "Why!" 
repeated  Helen,  bursting  out  into  new  rage;  "why 
indeed?  Because  she  ate  my  red  herring  !  I  set  it 
all  ready  on  the  end  of  the  dresser,  and  she  ran  away 
with  it,  and  ate  it  every  morsel  to  the  tail  —  such  an 
unheard-of  thing  for  the  brute  to  do.  Oh,  if  I  could 
have  got  hold  of  her,  she  should  not  have  got  off  with 
her  life!"  "And  have  you  had  no  dinner?"  asked  Geral- 
dine. "Oh,  yes,  I  had  mutton  enough,  but  I  had  just  set 
my  heart  on  a  red  herring."  Which  was  the  most  de- 
serving of  having  a  besom  taken  to  her,  the  cat  or  the 
woman  ? 

My  love  to  Babbie  ;    her  letter  to-day  is  most  comfort- 
able.    Blessings  on  you  all.  —  Your  affectionate  cousin, 

J.  WELSH 


(To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  at  Scotsbrig) 
CHELSEA,  Friday  morning,  August  18,  1843 

DEAREST,  —  If  you  expect  a  spirited  letter  from 
me  to-day,  I  grieve  that  you  will  be  disappointed. 
I  am  not  mended  yet  :  only  mending,  and  that  present 
participle  (to  use  Helen's  favourite  word  for  the  weather) 
is  extremely  "  dilatory."  The  pains  in  my  limbs  are 
gone,  however,  leaving  only  weakness  ;  and  my  head 
aches  now  with  "  a  certain  "  moderation  !  —  still  enough 
to  spoil  all  one's  enjoyment  of  life  —  if  there  be  any  such 
thing  for  some  of  us  —  and,  what  is  more  to  the  purpose, 
enough  to  interfere  with  one's  "did  intends,"  which  in 
my  case  grow  always  the  longer  the  more  manifold  and 
complicated. 

95 


The  Controversial  Grooms 

Darwin  came  yesterday  after  my  dinner-time  (I  had  dined 
at  three),  and  remarked,  in  the  course  of  some  specula- 
tive discourse,  that  I  "  looked  as  if  I  needed  to  go  to 
Gunte^s  and  have  an  ice ! "  Do  you  comprehend  what  sort 
of  look  that  can  be  ?  Certainly  he  was  right,  for  driving  to 
Gunter's  and  having  an  ice  revived  me  considerably :  it 
was  the  first  time  I  had  felt  up  to  crossing  the  threshold, 
since  I  took  Bessie  Mudie  to  the  railway  the  same  evening  I 
returned  from  Ryde<-  Darwin  was  very  clever  yesterday : 
he  remarked  apropos  of  a  pamphlet  of  Maurice^s  (which, 
by  the  way,  is  come  for  you),  entitled  A  Letter  to  Lord 
Ashley  respecting  a  certain  proposed  measure  for  stifling 
the  expression  of  opinion  in  the  University  of  Oxford, 
that  pamphlets  were  for  some  men  just  what  a  fit  of  the 
gout  was  for  others  —  they  cleared  the  system,  so  that  they 
could  go  on  again  pretty  comfortably  for  a  while.  He 
told  me  also  a  curious  conversation  amongst  three  grooms, 
at  which  Wrightson  had  assisted  the  day  before  in  a 
railway  carriage,  clearly  indicating  to  what  an  alarming 
extent  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad!  Groom  the  first  took 
a  pamphlet  from  his  pocket,  saying  he  had  bought  it 
two  days  ago  and  never  found  a  minute  to  read  it. 
Groom  the  second  inquired  the  subject.  First  Groom : 
"Oh,  a  hit  at  the  Puseyists."  Second  Groom:  "The 
Puseyists?  Ha,  they  are  for  bringing  us  back  to  the 
times  when  people  burnt  one  another!"  First  Groom 
(tapping  second  groom  on  the  shoulder  with  the 
pamphlet)  :  "  Charity,  my  brother,  charity ! "  Third 
Groom :  "  Well,  I  cannot  say  about  the  Puseyists ;  but 
my  opinion  is  that  what  we  need  is  more  Christianity 
and  less  religionism !  " 

Now  Wrightson  swears  that  every  word  of  this  is* 
literally  as  the  men  spoke  it — and  certainly  Wrightson 
could  not  invent  it. 


"  Vaixed  nevertheless  " 

I  had  a  long  letter  from  old  Sterling,  which  stupidly  I 
flung  into  the  fire  in  a  rage  (The  fire?  Yes,  it  is  only  for 
the  last  two  days  that  I  have  not  needed  fire  in  the 
mornings !)  ;  and  I  bethought  me  afterwards  that  I  had 
better  have  sent  it  to  you,  whom  its  cool  Robert 
Macaire  impudence  might  have  amused.  Only  fancy 
his  inviting  me  to  come  back,  and  "  this  time  he 
would  take  care  that  I  should  have  habitable  lodgings!" 
His  letter  began,  "The  last  cord  which  held  me  to 
existence  here  is  snapped,"  —  meaning  me!  and  so  on. 
Oh !  "  the  devil  fly  away  with "  the  old  sentimental 
curmudgeon ! 

I  had  letters  from  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buller  yesterday 
explaining  their  having  failed  to  invite  me ;  she  appears 
to  have  been  worse  than  ever,  and  is  likely  to  be  soon 
here  again.  Poor  old  Buller's  modest  hope  that  the  new 
medicine  "  may  not  turn  madam  blue  "  is  really  touching ! 

Here  is  your  letter  come.  And  you  have  not  yet  got 
any  from  me  since  my  return  !  Somebody  must  have 
been  very  negligent,  for  I  wrote  to  you  on  Sunday, 
added  a  postscript  on  Monday,  and  sent  off  both  letter 
and  newspapers  by  Helen,  in  perfectly  good  time.  It  is 
most  provoking  after  one  has  been  (as  Helen  says)  "just 
most  particular "  not  to  vaix  you,  to  find  that  you  have 
been  vaixed  nevertheless.  .  .  . 

IV 
(To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig) 

CHELSEA,  Thursday ',  September  18,  1845 

MY  DEAR,  ...  I  have  got  quite  over  the  fatigues 
of  my  journey,  which  had  been  most  provokingly 
aggravated  for  me  by  a  circumstance  "which  it  may  be 
interesting  not  to  state  " ;  the  last  two  nights  I  have  slept 
H  97 


Mazzini  Embarrassed 

quite  as  well  as  I  was  doing  at  Seaforth.  The  retirement 
of  Cheyne  Row  is  as  deep  at  present  as  anyone  not 
absolutely  a  Timon  of  Athens  could  desire.  "  There  is, 
in  the  first  place"  (as  Mr.  Paulet  would  say),  the  physical 
impossibility  (hardly  anybody  being  left  in  town),  and 
then  the  weather  has  been  so  tempestuous  that  nobody 
in  his  senses  (except  Mazzini,  who  never  reflects  whether 
it  be  raining  or  no)  would  come  out  to  make  visits.  He 
(Mazzini)  came  the  day  before  yesterday,  immediately  on 
receiving  notification  of  my  advent,  and  his  doe-skin 
boots  were  oozing  out  water  in  a  manner  frightful  to 
behold.  He  looked  much  as  I  left  him,  and  appeared  to 
have  made  no  progress  of  a  practical  sort.  He  told  me 
nothing  worth  recording,  except  that  he  had  received  the 
other  day  a  declaration  of  love.  And  this  he  told  with  the 
same  calma  and  historical  precision  with  which  you  might 
have  said  you  had  received  an  invitation  to  take  the  chair 
at  a  Mechanics'  Institute  dinner.  Of  course  I  asked  "the 
particulars."  "Why  not?"  and  I  got  them  fully,  at  the 
same  time  with  brevity,  and  without  a  smile.  Since  the 
assassination  affair,  he  had  received  many  invitations  to 
the  house  of  a  Jew  merchant  of  Italian  extraction,  where 
there  are  several  daughters  —  "  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  horri- 
bly ugly  :  that  is,  repugnantfor  me  entirely."  One  of  them 
is  "nevertheless  very  strong  in  music,"  and  seeing  that  he 
admired  her  playing,  she  had  "in  her  head  confounded 
the  playing  with  the  player." 

The  last  of  the  only  two  times  he  had  availed  himself  of 
their  attentions,  as  they  sat  at  supper  with  Browning  and 
some  others,  "the  youngest  of  the  horrible  family" 
proposed  to  him,  in  sotto  voce,  that  they  two  should 
drink  "a  goblet  of  wine1'  together,  each  to  the  person 
that  each  loved  most  in  the  world. 

"  I  find  your  toast  unegoist?  said  he,  "  and  I  accept  it  with 
98 


"  Colours  in  his  face  " 

pleasure.1'  "But,"  said  she,  "when  we  have  drunk,  we 
will  then  tell  each  other  to  whom  ?  "  "  Excuse  me,"  said  he, 
"  we  will,  if  you  please,  drink  without  conditions."  Where- 
upon they  drank ;  "  and  then  this  girl  —  what  shall  I  say  ? 
bold,  upon  my  honour  —  proposed  to  tell  me  to  whom  she 
had  drunk,  and  trust  to  my  telling  her  after.  '  As  you 
like.'  'Well,  then,  it  was  to  you!'  ' Really?'  said  I, 
surprised  I  must  confess.  '  Yes,'  said  she,  pointing 
aloft,  'true  as  God  exists.'  'Well,'  said  I,  'I  find  it 
strange.'  'Now,  then,'  said  she,  'to  whom  did  you 
drink  ? '  '  Ah  ! '  said  I,  '  that  is  another  question ; '  and  on 
this,  that  girl  became  ghastly  pale,  so  that  her  sister 
called  out,  '  Nina  !  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? '  and 
now,  thank  God,  she  has  sailed  to  Aberdeen."  Did  you 
ever  hear  anything  so  distracted  ?  enough  to  make  one 

ask  if  R has  not  some  grounds  for  his  extraordinary 

ideas  of  English  women. 

The  said  R presented  himself  here,  last  night,  in  an 

interregnum  of  rain,  and  found  me  in  my  dressing-gown 
(after  the  wetting),  expecting  no  such  Himmelssendung. 
I  looked  as  beautifully  unconscious  as  I  could  of  all  the 
amazing  things  I  had  been  told  of  him  at  Seaforth.  He 
talked  much  of  "  a  dreadful  illness  ;  "  but  looked  as  plump 
as  a  pincushion,  and  had  plenty  of  what  Mr.  Paulet  calls 
"colours  in  his  face."  He  seemed  less  distracted  than 
usual,  and  professed  to  have  discovered,  for  the  first  time, 
"  the  infinite  blessedness  of  work,"  and  also  to  be  "  making 
money  at  a  great  rate  —  paying  off  his  debts  by  five  or  six 
pounds  a  week."  I  remarked  that  he  must  surely  have 
had  a  prodigious  amount  of  debt  to  begin  with. — Kind 
regards  to  your  mother  and  the  rest.  J.  C. 


99 


The  Private  Theatricals 


(To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig) 

Tuesday,  September  23,  1845 

K  IV TOTHINK  "  for  you  to-day  in  the  shape  of  inclosure, 
•A  ^  unless  I  inclose  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Paulet  to 
myself,  which  you  will  find  as  "  entertaining "  to  the  full 
as  any  of  mine.  And  nothink  to  be  told  either,  except  all 
about  the  play ;  and  upon  my  honour,  I  do  not  feel  as  if  I 
had  a  penny-a-liner  genius  enough,  this  cold  morning,  to 
make  much  entertainment  out  of  that.  Enough  to 
clasp  one's  hands,  and  exclaim,  like  Helen  before  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  "Oh,  how  expensive!"  But  "how 
did  the  creatures  get  through  it?"  Too  well;  and  not 
well  enough!  The  public  theatre,  scenes  painted  by 
Stansfield,  costumes  "  rather  exquisite,"  together  with  the 
certain  amount  of  p'roficiency  in  the  amateurs,  overlaid 
all  idea  of  private  theatricals ;  and,  considering  it  as 
public  theatricals,  the  acting  was  "  most  insipid,"  not  one 
performer  among  them  that  could  be  called  good,  and 
none  that  could  be  called  absolutely  bad.  Douglas 
Jerrold  seemed  to  me  the  best,  the  oddity  of  his  appear- 
ance greatly  helping  him  ;  he  played  Stephen  the  Cull, 
Forster  as  Kitely,  and  Dickens  as  Captain  Bobadil,  were 
much  on  a  par ;  but  Forster  preserved  his  identity,  even 
through  his  loftiest  flights  of  Macreadyism ;  while  poor 
little  Dickens,  all  painted  in  black  and  red,  and  affecting 
the  voice  of  a  man  of  six  feet,  would  have  been  un- 
recognisable to  the  mother  that  bore  him!  On  the 
whole,  to  get  up  the  smallest  interest  in  the  thing,  one 
needed  to  be  always  reminding  oneself:  "all  these 
100 


Alfred  Tennyson,  Caryatid 

actors  were  once  men ! " l  and  will  be  men  again  to 
morrow  morning.  The  greatest  wonder  for  me  was  how 
they  had  contrived  to  get  together  some  six  or  seven 
hundred  ladies  and  gentlemen  (judging  from  the  clothes) 
at  this  season  of  the  year:  and  all  utterly  unknown  to 
me,  except  some  half-dozen. 

So  long  as  I  kept  my  seat  in  the  dress  circle  I 
recognised  only  Mrs.  Macready  (in  one  of  the  four 
private  boxes),  and  in  my  nearer  neighbourhood  Sir 
Alexander  and  Lady  Gordon.  But  in  the  interval 
beiw'ixt  the  play  and  the  farce  I  took  a  notion  to  make 
my  way  to  Mrs.  Macready.  John,  of  course,  declared 
the  thing  "  clearly  impossible,  no  use  trying  it ; "  but  a 
servant  of  the  theatre,  overhearing  our  debate,  politely 
offered  to  escort  me  where  I  wished ;  and  then  John, 
having  no  longer  any  difficulties  to  surmount,  followed, 
to  have  his  share  in  what  advantages  might  accrue 
from  the  change.  Passing  through  a  long  dim  passage, 
I  came  on  a  tall  man  leant  to  the  wall,  with  his  head 
touching  the  ceiling  like  a  caryatid,  to  all  appearance 
asleep,  or  resolutely  trying  it  under  the  most  unfavourable 
circumstances.  "Alfred  Tennyson!"  I  exclaimed  in 
joyful  surprise.  "Well!"  said  he,  taking  the  hand  I 
held  out  to  him,  and  forgetting  to  let  it  go  again.  "  I 
did  not  know  you  were  in  town,"  said  I.  "I  should  like 
to  know  who  you  are,1'  said  he;  "I  know  that  I  know 
you,  but  I  cannot  tell  your  name ."  And  I  had  actually 
to  name  myself  to  him.  Then  he  woke  up  in  good 
earnest,  and  said  he  had  been  meaning  to  come  to 
Chelsea.  "  But  Carlyle  is  in  Scotland,"  I  told  him  with 
humility.  "  So  I  heard  from  Spedding  already,  but  I 
asked  Spedding,  would  he  go  with  me  to  see  Mrs. 

1  Speech   of  a  very  young  Wedgwood  at  a  Woolwich  review: 
"  Ah,  papa,  all  these  soldiers  were  once  men."  —  T.  C. 
101 


In  the  Macreadys'   Box 

Carlyle?  and  he  said  he  would."  I  told  him  if  he  really 
meant  to  come,  he  had  better  not  wait  for  backing, 
under  the  present  circumstances;  and  then  pursued  my 
way  back  to  the  Macreadys1  box ;  where  I  was  received 
by  William  (whom  I  had  not  divined)  with  a  "  Gracious 
heavens!"  and  spontaneous  dramatic  start,  which  made 
me  all  but  answer,  "  Gracious  heavens ! "  and  start 
dramatically  in  my  turn.  And  then  I  was  kissed  all  round 

by  his   women ;  and  poor  Nell  Gwyn,  Mrs.  G 

seemed  almost  pushed  by  the  general  enthusiasm  on  the 
distracted  idea  of  kissing  me  also! 

They  would  not  let  me  return  to  my  stupid  place,  but 
put  in  a  third  chair  for  me  in  front  of  their  box ;  "  and 
the  latter  end  of  that  woman  was  better  than  the 
beginning.1'  Macready  was  in  perfect  ecstasies  over  the 
"  Life  of  Schiller,11  spoke  of  it  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  As 
"a  sign  of  the  times,11  I  may  mention  that  in  the  box 
opposite  sat  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  with  Payne 
Collier!  Next  to  us  were  D'Orsay  and  "  Milady  !  " 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  it  was  all  over  —  and  the 
practical  result?  Eight-and-sixpence  for  a  fly,  and  a 
headache  for  twenty-four  hours!  I  went  to  bed  as 
wearied  as  a  little  woman  could  be,  and  dreamt  that  I 
was  plunging  through  a  quagmire  seeking  some  herbs 
which  were  to  save  the  life  of  Mrs.  Maurice;  and  that 
Maurice  was  waiting  at  home  for  them  in  an  agony  of 
impatience,  while  I  could  not  get  out  of  the  mud-water. 

Craik  arrived   next   evening    (Sunday),   to   make    his 

compliments.     Helen   had   gone  to  visit   numbers,1  John 

was  smoking   in  the  kitchen.      I  was  lying  on  the  sofa, 

headachey,    leaving  Craik   to   put    himself  to   the   chief 

expenditure  of  wind,  when  a  cab  drove  up.     Mr.  Strachey? 

No.    Alfred  Tennyson  alone!     Actually,  by  a  superhuman 

!No.  5,  or  the  like,  denoting  maid-servants  there.  —  T.  C. 

102 


Helen  visits  Numbers 

effort  of  volition  he  had  put  himself  into  a  cab,  nay, 
brought  himself  away  from  a  dinner  party,  and  was 
there  to  smoke  and  talk  with  me! — by  myself — me! 
But  no  such  blessedness  was  in  store  for  him.  Craik 
prosed,  and  John  babbled  for  his  entertainment ; 
and  I,  whom  he  had  come  to  see,  got  scarcely  any 
speech  with  him.  The  exertion,  however,  of  having  to 
provide  him  with  tea,  through  my  own  unassisted  ingenu- 
ity (Helen  being  gone  for  the  evening)  drove  away  my 
headache ;  also  perhaps  a  little  feminine  vanity  at  having 
inspired  such  a  man  with  the  energy  to  take  a  cab  on 
his  own  responsibility,  and  to  throw  himself  on  providence 
for  getting  away  again!  He  stayed  till  eleven,  Craik 

sitting  him   out,  as  he  sat  out  Lady  H ,  and  would 

sit  out  the  Virgin  Mary  should  he  find  her  here. 

What  with  these  unfortunate  mattresses  (a  work  of 
necessity)  and  other  processes  almost  equally  indispen- 
sable, I  have  my  hands  full,  and  feel  "worried,"  which  is 
worse.  I  fancy  my  earthquake  begins  to  "  come  it  rather 
strong11  for  Joh^s  comfort  and  ease,  but  I  cannot  help 
that ;  if  I  do  not  get  on  with  my  work,  such  as  it  is,  what 
am  I  here  for? — Yours,  J.  C. 

VI 

(To  T.  Carlyle,  Esq.,  Scotsbrig) 

Wednesday,  October  I,  1845 

ELL!  now  I  am  subsided  again;  set  in  for  a 
quiet  evening,  at  leisure  to  write,  and  with 
plenty  to  write  about.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  I  seem 
to  myself  to  be  leading  a  most  solitary,  and  virtuous,  and 
eventless  life  here,  at  this  dead  season  of  the  year ;  and 
yet  when  I  sit  down  to  write,  I  have  so  many  things  to 
tell  always  that  I  am  puzzled  where  to  begin.  Decidedly, 
103 


w 


A  Penny-a-Liner 

I  was  meant  to  have  been  a  subaltern  of  the  Daily  Press 
—  not  "  a  penny-lady," 1  but  a  penny-a-liner ;  for  it  is  not 
only  a  faculty  with  me  but  a  necessity  of  my  nature  to 
make  a  great  deal  out  of  nothing. 

To  begin  with  something  I  have  been  treasuring  up 
for  a  week  (for  I  would  not  holloa  till  we  were  out  of  the 
wood)  :  I  have////  down  the  dog\^  "The  dog!  wasn't 
he  put  down  at  Christmas,  with  a  hare  ?  "  It  seemed  so ; 
and  "  we  wished  we  might  get  it!"  But  on  my  return  I 
found  him  in  the  old  place,  at  the  back  of  the  wall, 
barking  "  like —  like  —  anything!  "  "  Helen  !  "  I  said,  with 
the  calmness  of  a  great  despair,  u  is  not  that  the  same 
dog  ?  "  "  Deed  is  it !  "  said  she,  "  and  the  whole  two 
months  you  have  been  away,  its  tongue  has  never  lain! 
it  has  driven  even  me  almost  distracted!"  I  said  no 
more,  but  I  had  my  own  thoughts  on  the  subject.  Poison? 
a  pistol  bullet  ?  the  Metropolitan  Police  ?  Some  way  or 
other  that  dog  —  or  I  —  must  terminate. 

Meanwhile  I  went  on  cleaning  with  what  heart  I  could. 
"  My  dear  !  Will  you  listen  to  the  catastrophe  ?  "  I  am 
hastening,  slowly  —  festina  lente.  Bless  your  heart ! 
"  there's  nothing  pushing"  —  "  the  rowins  3  are  a'  in  the 
loft  "  for  this  night!  Well  !  it  was  the  evening  after  John's 
departure. 

1  had  been  too  busy  all  day  to  listen  ;  the  candles  were 
lit,  and  I  had  set  myself  with  my  feet  on  the  fender  to 
enjoy  the   happiness   of   being  let    alone,   and  to  —  bid 

*In  Scotland  the  "  Penny  Ladies"  (extraneously  so-called)  were 
busy,  "benevolent"  persons;  subscribers  of  a  penny  a  week  for 
educating,  etc. :  not  with  much  success.  —  T.  C. 

2  Oh,  my  heroine !     Endless  were  her  feats  in  regard  to  all  this, 
and  her  gentle  talents  too !     I  could  not  have  lived  here  but  for 
that,  had  there  been  nothing  more.  — T.  C. 

3  "  Rowins  "  are  wool   completely  carded,  ready  for  the  wheel 
when  it  comes  down  from  "the  loft." — T.  C. 

104 


A  New  Catastrophe 

myself  "consider."  "Bow-wow-wow,"  roared  the  dog, 
"  and  dashed  the  cup  of  fame  from  my  brow ! "  "  Bow- 
wow-wow," again,  and  again,  till  the  whole  universe 
seemed  turned  into  one  great  dog-kennel!  I  hid  my 
face  in  my  hands  and  groaned  inwardly.  "  Oh,  destiny 
accursed!  what  use  of  scrubbing  and  sorting?  All  this 
availeth  me  nothing,  so  long  as  the  dog  sitteth  at  the 
washerman's  gate  !  "  I  could  have  burst  into  tears,  but  I 
did  not !  "  I  was  a  republican  —  before  the  Revolution ; 
and  I  never  wanted  energy  ! "  I  ran  for  ink  and  paper, 
and  wrote :  — 

"  DEAR  GAMBARDELLA,  —  You  once  offered  to  shoot 
some  cocks  for  me ;  that  service  I  was  enabled  to  dispense 
with ;  but  now  I  accept  your  devotion.  Come,  if  you 

value  my  sanity,  and "     But  here,  "  a  sudden  thought 

struck  me."  He  could  not  take  aim  at  the  dog  without 
scaling  the  high  wall,  and  in  so  doing  he  would  certainly 
be  seized  by  the  police ;  so  I  threw  away  that  first 
sibylline  leaf,  and  wrote  another  —  to  the  washerman! 
Once  more  I  offered  him  "  any  price  for  that  horrible 
dog  —  to  hang  it,"  offered  "  to  settle  a  yearly  income  on 
it  if  it  would  hold  its  accursed  tongue."  I  implored, 
threatened,  imprecated,  and  ended  by  proposing  that, 
in  case  he  could  not  take  an  immediate  final  resolution, 
he  should  in  the  interview  "  make l  the  dog  dead-drunk 
with  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  which  I  sent  for  the  purpose!" 
Helen  was  sent  off  with  the  note  and  whiskey;  and  I  sat, 
all  concentrated,  awaiting  her  return,  as  if  the  fate  of 
nations  had  depended  on  my  diplomacy ;  and  so  it  did, 
to  a  certain  extent !  Would  not  the  inspirations  of  "  the 
first  man  in  Europe  "  be  modified,2  for  the  next  six  months 

iMark,  mark!  — T.C. 

2  Quiz  mainly  this,  and  glad  mockery  of  some  who  deserved  it.  — 
T.C. 

I05 


Mocking  the  Deserving 

at  least,  by  the  fact,  who  should  come  off  victorious,  I  or 
the  dog?  Ah!  it  is  curious  to  think  how  first  men  in 
Europe,  and  first  women  too,  are  acted  upon  by  the 
inferior  animals ! 

Helen  came,  but  even  before  that  had  "  the  raven  down 
of  night  "  smoothed  itself  in  heavenly  silence! 

God  grant  this  were  not  mere  accident;  oh,  no! 
verily  it  was  not  accident.  The  washerman's  two 
daughters  had  seized  upon  and  read  the  note ;  and 
what  was  death  to  me  had  been  such  rare  amusement 
to  them,  that  they  "  fell  into  fits  of  laughter  "  in  the  first 
place ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  ran  down  and  untied  the 
dog,  and  solemnly  pledged  themselves  that  it  should 
"  never  trouble  me  more ! "  At  Christmas  they  had  sent 
it  into  the  country  for  three  months  "  to  learn  to  be  quiet," 
and  then  chained  it  in  the  old  place ;  now  they  would 
take  some  final  measure.  Next  morning  came  a  note 
from  the  washerman  himself,  written  on  glazed  paper, 
with  a  crow-quill,  apologising,  promising;  he  could  not 
put  it  away  entirely ;  as  it  was  "  a  great  protection  "  to 
him,  and  "  belonged  to  a  relative  "  (who  shall  say  where 
sentiment  may  not  exist!),  but  he  "had  untied  it,  and 
would  take  care  it  gave  me  no  further  trouble,"  and  he 
"returned  his  grateful  thanks  for  what  'as  been  sent."  It 
is  a  week  ago :  and  one  may  now  rest  satisfied  that  the 
tying  up  caused  the  whole  nuisance.  The  dog  is  to  be 
seen  going  about  there  all  day  in  the  yard,  like  any  other 
Christian  dog,  "  carrying  out  "  your  principle  of  silence, 
not  merely  "  platonically,"  but  practically. 

Since  that  night,  as  Helen  remarks,  "  it  has  not  said 
one  word !  "  So,  "  thanks  God,"  you  still  have  quietude  to 
return  to  ! l 

1  Well  do  I  remember  that  dog,  behind  the  wall,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street.     Never  heard  more.  —  T.  C. 
106 


The  Cheyne  Row  Dog 

I  took  tea  with  Sterling  on  Monday  night;  walked 
there,  and  he  sent  the  carriage  home  with  me.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  know  how  to  do  with  him.  He  does  not  seem 
to  me  essentially  mad ;  but  rather  mad  with  the  appre- 
hension of  madness;  a  state  of  mind  I  can  perfectly 
understand  —  moi.  He  forgets  sometimes  Anthony's 
name,  for  example,  or  mine;  or  how  many  children 
he  has;  and  then  he  gets  into  a  rage,  that  he  cannot 
recollect ;  and  then  he  stamps  about,  and  rings  the  bell, 
and  brings  everybody  in  the  house  to  "help  him  to 
remember " ;  and  when  all  will  not  do,  he  exclaims :  "  I 
am  going  mad,  by  God ! "  and  then  he  is  mad,  as  mad 
as  a  March  hare. 

I  can  do  next  to  nothing  for  him,  beyond  cheering  him 
up  a  little,  for  the  moment.  Yesterday,  again,  I  went  a 
little  drive  with  him ;  of  course,  not  without  Saunders  as 
well  as  the  coachman.  He  told  me  that  when  he  heard 
I  had  written  about  him,  he  "  cried  for  three  days." 
Anthony's  desertion  seems  the  central  point,  around 
which  all  his  hypochondriacal  ideas  congregate.  Anthony 
has  never  written  him  the  scrape  of  a  pen,  since  he  left 
him  insensible  at  Manchester;  nor  even  written  about 
him,  so  far  as  himself  or  his  manservant  knows. 

Whom  else  have  I  seen?  Nobody  else,  I  think,  except 
Mazzini,  whom  I  was  beginning  to  fancy  the  Jewess 
must  have  made  an  entivement  of;  and  enlevt,  he  had 
been,  sure  enough,  but  not  by  the  Jewess  —  by  himself,  and 
only  the  length  of  Oxford ;  or  rather  he  meant  to  go  only 
the  length  of  Oxford ;  but,  with  his  usual  practicality,  let 
himself  be  carried  sixty  miles  further,  to  a  place  he  called 
Swinton.  Then,  that  the  journey  back  might  have  also  its 
share  of  misadventure,  he  was  not  in  time  to  avail  himself 
of  the  place  he  had  taken,  "  in  the  second  class " ;  but 
had  to  jump  up,  "  quite  promiscuously,"  beside  "  the  con- 
107 


Mazzini  is  Loved  Again 

ductor,"  where  he  had  "  all  the  winds  of  heaven  blowing 
on  him,  and  through  him;"  the  result  a  "  dreadful  cold." 
Dreadful  it  must  have  been  when  it  confined  him  to  the 
house.  Meanwhile  he  had  had  —  two  other  declarations 
of  love  !  !  They  begin  to  be  absurd  as  the  midges 
in  Mr.  Fleming's  "right  eye."  "What !  more  of  them?  " 
"  Ah  yes!  unhappily  !  they  begin  to  —  to  what  shall  I  say? 
—  rain  on  me  like  sauterelles  \  "  One  was  from  a  young 
lady  in  Genoa,  who  sent  him  a  bracelet  of  her  hair  (the 
only  feature  he  has  seen  of  her)  ;  and  begged  "  to  be  united 
to  him  —  in  plotting!"  "That  one  was  good,  upon  my 
honour."  "And  the  other?  "  "Ah!  from  a  woman  here, 
married,  thank  God;  though  to  a  man  fifty  years  more 
old  —  French,  and  sings  —  the  other  played,  decidedly  my 
love  of  music  has  consequences ! "  "  And  how  did  she 
set  about  it  ?  "  "  Franchement ;  through  a  mutual  friend  ; 
and  then  she  sent  me  an  invitation  to  supper;  and  I 
returned  for  answer  that  I  was  going  to  Oxford ;  where 
I  still  am,  or  will  remain  a  long,  long  time  ! "  Emanci- 
pation de  la  femme !  we  would  say,  it  marches  almost 
faster  than  intellect.  And  now,  if  there  be  not  clatter 
enough  for  one  night,  I  have  a  great  many  half-moons 
and  stars  to  cut  in  paper  before  I  go  to  bed.  For  what 
purpose?  That  is  my  secret.  "And  you  wish  that  you 
could  tell!" 

Good-night.      Schlaf  Wohl.  J.  C. 


108 


A  Night  Adventure 

VII 
(To  Mrs.  Russell,  Thornhill) 

CHELSEA,  November  28,  1856 

MY  DARLING,  .  .  .,  Oh,  such  a  fright  I  got  last 
Friday  morning  !  Thursday  night  was  my 
second  night  of  something  like  human  sleep.  I  had 
fallen  asleep  about  three,  and  was  still  sleeping  off  and 
on  between  six  and  seven,  when  I  was  startled  wide 
awake  by  a  heavy  fall  in  the  room  directly  over  mine 
(Mr.  C.'s  bedroom)  ;  I  knew  in  the  very  act  of  waking, 
that  it  was  no  table  or  inanimate  thing  that  made  the 
sound,  but  a  human  body,  —  Mr.  C.'s  of  course  —  the  only 
human  body  there  !  What  could  I  think  but  that  he 
had  got  up  ill,  and  fallen  down  in  a  fit?  I  threw  myself 
out  of  bed,  tore  open  my  door  and  began  to  run  upstairs. 
But  my  legs  got  paralysed :  I  leant  against  the  wall  and 
screamed.  In  answer  to  my  scream,  came  Mr.  C/s 
voice,  calling  out  quite  jolly,  "  It's  nothing,  my  Dear  ! 
Go  back  to  your  bed ;  it  is  a  mistake :  I  will  be  there 
presently  ! "  Back  to  bed  I  crept ;  and  then  if  it  had 
been  in  my  constitution  to  take  a  fit  of  hysterics  I 
should  have  taken  it  !  As  it  was  I  lay  and  trembled 
and  my  teeth  chattered,  and  when  Mr.  C.  came  and 
tried  me  with  some  water,  I  could  no  more  swallow  it 
than  if  I  had  taken  hydrophobia.  He  had  awoke  too 
early,  and  got  up  to  go  down  stairs  and  smoke,1  his 
way  of  invoking  sleep.  His  room  being  quite  dark,  and 
thinking  to  put  on  his  stockings  and  shoes  before  getting 
himself  a  light,  he  had  gone  to  sit  down  on  a  chair  at 
the  bottom  of  his  bed,  where  these  articles  are  kept; 

i1  Carlyle  was  not  permitted  to  smoke  in  his  own  bedroom. 
109 


Philosopher  sits  on  Nothing 

but  mistaking  the  locality,  he  had  sat  down  on  nothing 
at  all  \  and  fell  smack  his  whole  length  on  the  floor,  — 
not  hurting  himself  in  the  least,  for  a  wonder.  This 
adventure  has  pretty  well  taken  the  conceit  out  of  me 
on  the  score  of  courage,  presence  of  mind,  and  all  that! 
Mercy!  what  would  have  become  of  Dr.  Russell  if  he  had 
had  a  Wife  who  stood  still  and  screamed,  that  time  when 
he  was  so  dangerously  ill?  ... 

Do  be  so  good  as  give  Mr.  Dobbie1an  emphatic  kiss 
for  me ;  for  if  Mr.  C.  become  unendurable  with  his 
eternal  "Frederick"  I  intend  running  away  with  Mr. 
Dobbie  ! — to  the  backwoods,  or  wherever  he  likes. — 
God  bless  you,  my  dear,  kind  true,  woman.  Give  my 
love  to  your  Husband.  —  Yours  ever  affectionately, 

JANE  CARLYLE 

Have  you  got  the  new  little  dog?  I  have  a  whistle 
for  him. 

i  The  Rev.  Mr.  Dobbie  (Mrs.  Russell's  father),  then  in  his  Both 
year. 


110 


VI 

"RICH  EYES" 

Edward  FitzGerald   rejoices  in  Frederic  Tennyson's 
great  cricket  match      ^>      .  x^>        *^        ^> 

BOULGE  HALL,  WOODBRIDGE,  March  26,  1841 

MY  DEAR  THOMPSON,— I  had  a  long  letter  from 
Morton  the  other  day  —  he  is  still  luxuriating 
at  Venice.  Also  a  letter  from  Frederic  Tennyson,  who 
has  been  in  Sicily,  etc.,  and  is  much  distracted  between 
enjoyment  of  those  climates  and  annoyance  from  Fleas. 
These  two  men  are  to  be  at  Rome  together  soon ;  so  if 
anyone  wants  to  go  to  Rome,  now  is  a  good  time.  I  wish 
I  was  there. 

F.  Tennyson  says  that  he  and  a  party  of  Englishmen 
fought  a  cricket  match  with  the  crew  of  the  Bellerophon 
on  the  Parthenopcean  hills  (query  about  the  correctness 
of  this  —  I  quote  from  memory),  and  sacked  the  sailors 
by  90  runs. 

Is  not  this  pleasant?  —  the  notion  of  good  English 
blood  striving  in  worn-out  Italy.  I  like  that  such  men 
as  Frederic  should  be  abroad :  so  strong,  haughty  and 
passionate.  They  keep  up  the  English  character 
abroad.  .  .  . 

in 


Antidotes  to  Carlyle 

Have  you  read  poor  Carlyle's  raving  book  about 
heroes  ?  Of  course  you  have  or  I  would  ask  you  to  buy 
my  copy.  I  don't  like  to  live  with  it  in  the  house.  It 
smoulders.  He  ought  to  be  laughed  at  a  little.  But  it 
is  pleasant  to  retire  to  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  Tristram 
Shandy,  and  Horace  Walpole,  after  being  tossed  on  his 
canvas  waves.  This  is  blasphemy.  Dibdin  Pitt  of  the 
Coburg  could  enact  one  of  his  heroes.  .  .  -. 


The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  describes  his  adventures  to 
his  daughter      ^>        ^^y        ^o*        ^>        ^y 

December  11,  1835 

MY  DEAREST  CHILD,  — Few  are  the  adventures 
of  a  Canon  travelling  gently  over  good  roads  to 
his  benefice.  In  my  way  to  Reading,  I  had,  for  my  com- 
panion, the  Mayor  of  Bristol  when  I  preached  that 
sermon  in  favour  of  the  Catholics.  He  recognised  me, 
and  we  did  very  well  together.  I  was  terribly  afraid  that 
he  would  stop  at  the  same  inn,  and  that  I  should  have 
the  delight  of  his  society  for  the  evening;  but  he  (thank 
God  !)  stopped  at  the  Crown,  as  a  loyal  man,  and  I,  as  a 
rude  one,  went  on  to  the  Bear.  Civil  waiters,  wax 
candles,  and  off  again  the  next  morning,  with  my  friend 
and  Sir  W.  W ,  a  very  shrewd,  clever,  coarse,  enter- 
taining man,  with  whom  I  skirmished  a  Vaimable  all  the 
way  to  Bath.  At  Bath,  candles  still  more  waxen,  and 
waiters  still  more  profound.  Being,  since  my  travels, 
very  much  gallicised  in  my  character,  I  ordered  a  pint  of 
claret ;  I  found  it  incomparably  the  best  wine  I  ever 
tasted;  it  disappeared  with  a  rapidity  which  surprises 
me  even  at  this  distance  of  time.  The  next  morning,  in 
the  coach  by  eight,  with  a  handsome  valetudinarian  lady, 

112 


Boz  in  Dublin 

upon  whom  the  coach  produced  the  same  effect  as  a  steam- 
packet  would  do.  I  proposed  weak  warm  brandy  and 
water;  she  thought,  at  first,  it  would  produce  inflamma- 
tion of  the  stomach,  but  presently  requested  to  have  it 
warm  and  not  weak,  and  she  took  it  to  the  last  drop,  as 
I  did  the  claret.  All  well  here.  God  bless  you,  dearest 
child!  Love  to  Holland.  SYDNEY  SMITH 


Charles  Dickens  meets  a  small  Irish  Boy       •^      ^> 
(To  Miss  Hogarth) 

MORRISON'S  HOTEL,  DUBLIN 

Wednesday,  August  25,  1858 

I  BEGIN  my  letter  to  you  to-day,  though  I  don't  know 
when  I  may  send  it  off.  We  had  a  very  good 
house  last  night.  For  "  Little  Dombey,"  this  morning, 
we  have  an  immense  stall  let  —  already  more  than  two 
hundred  —  and  people  are  now  fighting  in  the  agent's 
shop  to  take  more.  They  were  a  highly  excitable  audi- 
ence last  night,  but  they  certainly  did  not  comprehend  — 
internally  and  intellectually  comprehend  —  "The  Chimes" 
as  a  London  audience  do.  I  am  quite  sure  of  it.  I  very 
much  doubt  the  Irish  capacity  of  receiving  the  pathetic ; 
but  of  their  quickness  as  to  the  humorous  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  I  shall  see  how  they  go  along  with  little 
Paul,  in  his  death,  presently. 

We  meant,  as  I  said  in  a  letter  to  Katie,  to  go  to 
Queenstown  yesterday  and  bask  on  the  seashore.  But 
there  is  always  so  much  to  do  that  we  couldn't  manage  it 
after  all.  We  expect  a  tremendous  house  to-morrow 
night  as  well  as  to-day.  I  have  become  a  wonderful 
Irishman — must  play  an  Irish  part  some  day  —  and 
i  113 


Arthur's  Eccentricities 

Arthur's  only  relaxation  is  when  I  enact  "John  and  the 
Boots,"  which  I  consequently  do  enact  all  day  long. 
The  papers  are  full  of  remarks  upon  my  white  tie,  and 
describe  it  as  being  of  enormous  size,  which  is  a  wonder- 
ful delusion,  because,  as  you  very  well  know,  it  is  a  small 
tie.  Generally,  I  am  happy  to  report,  the  Emerald  press 
is  in  favour  of  my  appearance,  and  likes  my  eyes.  But 
one  gentleman  comes  out  with  a  letter  at  Cork,  wherein 
he  says  that  although  only  forty-six  I  look  like  an  old 
man.  He  is  a  rum  customer,  I  think. 

John  has  given  it  up  altogether  as  to  rivalry  with  the 
Boots,  and  did  not  come  into  my  room  this  morning 
at  all.  Boots  appeared  triumphant  and  alone.  He 
was  waiting  for  me  at  the  hotel-door  last  night. 
"  Whaa't  sart  of  a  hoose,  sur?  "  he  asked  me.  "  Capital." 
"  The  Lard  be  praised  fur  the  'onor  o1  Dooblin ! " 

Arthur  buys  bad  apples  in  the  street  and  brings  them 
home  and  doesn't  eat  them,  and  then  I  am  obliged  to 
put  them  in  the  balcony  because  they  make  the  room 
smell  faint.  Also  he  meets  countrymen  with  honeycomb 
on  their  heads,  and  leads  them  (by  the  button-hole  when 
they  have  one)  to  this  gorgeous  establishment,  and  re- 
quests the  bar  to  buy  honeycomb  for  his  breakfast ;  then 
it  stands  upon  the  sideboard  uncovered  and  the  flies  fall 
into  it.  He  buys  owls,  too,  and  castles,  and  other  horrible 
objects,  made  in  bog-oak ;  and  he  is  perpetually  snipping 
pieces  out  of  newspapers  and  sending  them  all  over  the 
world.  While  I  am  reading,  he  conducts  the  corre- 
spondence, and  his  great  delight  is  to  show  me  seventeen 
or  eighteen  letters  when  I  come,  exhausted,  into  the 
retiring-place. 

Berry  has  not  got  into  any  particular  trouble  for  forty- 
eight  hours,  except  that  he  is  all  over  boils.  I  have 
prescribed  the  yea'st,  but  ineffectually.  It  is  indeed  a 
114 


Young  Ireland  and  the  Inimitable 

sight   to   see   him   and    John   sitting   in  pay-boxes,   and 
surveying  Ireland  out  of  pigeon-holes. 

Same  evening  before  bedtime 

Everybody  was  at  "Little  Dombey"  to-day,  and  although 
I  had  some  little  difficulty  to  work  them  up  in  conse- 
quence of  the  excessive  crowding  of  the  place,  and  the 
difficulty  of  shaking  the  people  into  their  seats,  the 
effect  was  unmistakable  and  profound.  The  crying  was 
universal,  and  they  were  extraordinarily  affected.  There 
is  no  doubt  we  could  stay  here  a  week  with  that  one 
reading,  and  fill  the  place  every  night.  Hundreds  of 
people  have  been  there  to-night,  under  the  impression 
that  it  would  come  off  again.  It  was  a  most  decided 
and  complete  success. 

Here  follows  a  dialogue  (but  it  requires  imitation), 
which  I  had  yesterday  morning  with  a  little  boy  of  the 
house  —  landlord's  son,  I  suppose  —  about  Plorn's  age. 
I  am  sitting  on  the  sofa  writing,  and  find  him  sitting 
beside  me. 

Inimitable.  Holloa,  old  chap. 

Young  Ireland.  Hal-loo ! 

Inimitable  (in  his  delightful  way).  What  a  nice  old 
fellow  you  are.  I  am  very  fond  of  little  boys. 

Young  Ireland.  Air  yer?     Ye'r  right. 

Inimitable.  What  do  you  learn,  old  fellow? 

Young  Ireland  (very  intent  on  Inimitable,  and  always 
childish,  except  in  his  brogue).  I  lairn  wureds  of  three 
sillibils,  and  wureds  of  two  sillibils,  and  wureds  of  one 
sillibil. 

Inimitable  (gaily).  Get  out,  you  humbug!  You  learn 
only  words  of  one  syllable. 

Young  Ireland  (laughs  heartily) .    You  may  say  that  it 
is  mostly  wureds  of  one  sillibil. 
"5 


"Them  two  old  Paddies" 

Inimitable.    Can  you  write? 

Young  Ireland.   Not  yet.     Things  comes  by  deegrays. 

Inimitable.    Can  you  cipher? 

Young  Ireland  (very  quickly).   Wha'at's  that? 

Inimitable.    Can  you  make  figures? 

Young  Ireland.  I  can  make  a  nought,  which  is  not 
asy,  being  roond. 

Inimitable.  I  say,  old  boy,  wasn't  it  you  I  saw  on 
Sunday  morning  in  the  hall,  in  a  soldier's  cap?  You 
know  —  in  a  soldier's  cap? 

Young  Ireland  (cogitating  deeply).  Was  it  a  very  good 
'cap? 

Inimitable.   Yes. 

Young  Ireland.   Did  it  fit  unkommon  ? 

Inimitable.   Yes. 

Young  Ireland.   Dat  was  me ! 

There  are  two  stupid  old  louts  at  the  room,  to 
show  people  into  their  places,  whom  John  calls 
"  them  two  old  Paddies,"  and  of  whom  he  says,  that  he 
"never  see  nothing  like  them  (snigger)  hold  idiots" 
(snigger).  They  bow  and  walk  backwards  before  the 
grandees,  and  our  men  hustle  them  while  they  are 
doing  it. 

We  walked  out  last  night,  with  the  intention  of  going 
to  the  theatre ;  but  the  Piccolomini  Establishment  (they 
were  doing  the  Lucia)  looked  so  horribly  like  a  very  bad 
jail,  and  the  Queen's  looked  so  blackguardly,  that  we 
came  back  again,  and  went  to  bed.  I  seem  to  be  always 
either  in  a  railway  carriage,  or  reading,  or  going  to  bed. 
I  get  so  knocked  up,  whenever  I  have  a  minute  to  re- 
member it,  that  then  I  go  to  bed  as  a  matter  of  course. 
I  am  looking  forward  to  the  last  Irish  reading  on  Thurs- 
day, with  great  impatience.  But  when  we  shall  have 
turned  this  week,  once  knocked  off  Belfast,  I  shall  see 
116 


Down  a  Copper  Mine 

land,   and  shall  (like  poor  Timber   in  the  days  of  old) 
"  keep  up  a  good  heart." 

Ever,  my  dearest  Georgy,  most  affectionately. 


Shirley  Brooks  extols  Cornwall  to  Mr.  W.  P.  Frith,  R.A. 

ESPLANADE,  PENZANCE 
Saturday,  September  21,  1867 

MY  DEAR  COTTLE,  —  «  Behold  'em  'ere  ! "  « 'Ere  " 
is  not  Penzance,  but  Ilfracombe,  Devonshire.  The 
above  represents  feebly  (I  am  now  critical  in  art,  for  I 
have  got  the  very  house  occupied*  last  year  by  Tom 
Taylor)  the  stunning  hotel  at  Penzance  where  we  were 
exceedingly  comfortable  for  some  days,  and  whence  we 
made  "  excrescences "  to  the  Land's  End  and  other 
wonderful  works  of  nature.  "  It  is  a  holy  thing,"  said 
Mr.  Squeers,  "  to  be  in  a  state  of  nature." 

This  reminds  me  that  we  went  down  a  copper  mine, 
half  a  mile  under  the  sea,  by  a  wire  rope  tied  to  a  car 
about  as  big  as  a  coal-scuttle  —  a  sensation!  —  but  a 
previous  sensation  was  reading  in  the  guide-book, 
"  Before  descending  you  must  divest  yourself  of  every 

article  of  apparel,  and "  Here  I  closed  the  book, 

and  put  it  away  as  S — b — ian ;  but  learning  that  you 
could  compromise  by  taking  off  your  coat  and  tucking 
up  your  trousers,  and  putting  on  a  miner's  dress,  white, 
splashed  with  yellow  mud,  I  reconsidered  the  subject. 
You  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Shirley  in  a  long  white  thing 
like  a  vast  nightgown,  and  with  a  thick  yellow  dread- 
nought !  But  she  did  the  perilous  descent  gallantly, 
commending  her  soul  to  the  supreme  powers,  and  the 
splashes  through  the  crevices  to  the  devil  (I  believe). 

The  Duke  of  Cornwall,  Plymouth,  is  a  splendid  new 
117 


Cornish  Phenomena 

hotel,  with  all  the  comforts,  and  close  to  the  train.  We 
did  all  the  sights,  including  the  Breakwater,  which  is  not 
worth  doing.  But  the  coast  scenery  of  both  Cornwall 
and  Devon  is  glorious.  Very  likely  I  am  telling  you 
what  you  know,  for  Reynolds  was  born  in  Devonshire, 
and  you  might  have  been  born  anywhere  you  chose. 
We  have  done  an  awful  lot,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  got 
to  a  resting-place  for  a  week  in  this  love-ley  place.  We 
are  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill,  and  see  Lundy  Isle,  Wales, 
Jerusalem,  and  Madagascar ;  and  to-day  we  are  going  to 
have  squab-pie  and  junket. 

From  Du  Maurier  I  glean  that  you  are  all  a  happy 
colony;  and  I  hope  to  see  you  after  we  get  back.  At 
Helston  there  were  two  pictures,  regarded  as  household 
treasures.  One  was  "  Coming  of  Age,"  and  the  other  the 
"  Sports  in  the  Olden  Time."  I  obtained  much  kudos 
by  saying  that  I  knew  the  painter—  that  I  had  stood  for 
the  young  heir;  and  the  grandad  in  the  other  was 
Spurgeon,  to  whom  /  had  introduced  you  when  you 
persuaded  him  to  sit  to  you.  This  will  become  a  Cornish 
legend.  At  Plymouth  Station  there  is  a  three-legged  cat, 
—  not  a  Manx  cat  (good),  but  one  whose  leg  was  cut  off  by 
a  railway-engine.  This  is  the  most  remarkable  thing  I 
have  seen,  except  the  Devil's  Bellows  at  Kinance  Bay, 
which  is  more  remarkable ;  but  I  do  not  know  why. 

I  have  had  my  hair  cut  by  a  barber  called  Petherwick 
Peninluma,  and  I  have  had  my  old  shoes  mended  for 
is.  Qd.  and  they  are  more  comfortable  than  my  new  ones, 
which  cost  a  guinea.  Such,  my  Cottle,  is  a  lesson  that 
should  teach  us,  how  little  real  value  there  is  in  money, 
on  which,  moreover,  Providence  sets  no  store,  or  He 

would  not  bestow  it  on  the  unworthy,  like ;  but  no 

matter,   I  am  in  charity  with  all  mankind.     My  address 

is  5,   Castle  Terrace,  Ilfracombe.     Give  us  a  hail!     My 

118 


Shirley  Brooks's  Good  Joke 

wife  says  I  have  taken  her  "  out  of  the  world."     She  eats 
well,  however,  for  an  angel.  —  Ever  faithfully  yours, 

SHIRLEY  BROOKS 

I  made  a  good  joke.  We  had  struggled  up  a  steep 
mountain,  and  I  rested  at  a  tree,  and  asked  "why  it 
was  like  a  hospital  counterpane."  They  gave  it  up  with 
abuse.  "  Because  it's  on  the  top  of  the  'ill."  Wit,  you 
see,  does  not  depend  upon  locality. 


Charles  Lamb  at  the  Lakes  ^^        ^^        ^>        "^ 

LONDON,  September  24,  1802 

MY  DEAR  MANNING,— Since  the  date  of  my  last 
letter  I  have  been  a  traveller.  A  strong  desire 
seized  me  of  visiting  remote  regions.  My  first  impulse 
was  to  go  and  see  Paris.  It  was  a  trivial  objection  to  my 
aspiring  mind,  that  I  did  not  understand  a  word  of  the 
language,  since  I  certainly  intend  some  time  in  my  life 
to  see  Paris,  and  equally  certainly  never  intend  to  learn 
the  language ;  therefore  that  could  be  no  objection. 
However,  I  am  very  glad  I  did  not  go,  because  you  had 
left  Paris  (I  see)  before  I  could  have  set  out.  I  believe, 
Stoddart  promising  to  go  with  me  another  year  prevented 
that  plan.  My  next  scheme  (for  to  my  restless,  ambitious 
mind  London  was  become  a  bed  of  thorns)  was  to  visit 
the  far-farmed  Peak  in  Derbyshire,  where  the  Devil  sits, 
they  say,  without  breeches.  This  my  purer  mind  re- 
jected as  indelicate.  And  my  final  resolve  was  a  tour 
to  the  Lakes.  I  set  out  with  Mary  to  Keswick,  without 
giving  Coleridge  any  notice ;  for  my  time  being  precious 
did  not  admit  of  it.  He  received  us  with  all  the 
hospitality  in  the  world,  and  gave  up  his  time  to  show 
119 


"  Fine  old  fellows,  Skiddaw,  etc." 

us  all  the  wonders  of  the  country.  He  dwells  upon  a 
small  hill  by  the  side  of  Keswick,  in  a  comfortable  house, 
quite  enveloped  on  all  sides  by  a  net  of  mountains : 
great  floundering  bears  and  monsters  they  seemed,  all 
couchant  and  asleep.  We  got  in  in  the  evening,  travel- 
ling in  a  post-chaise  from  Penrith,  in  the  midst  of  a 
gorgeous  sunshine,  which  transmuted  all  the  mountains 
into  colours,  purple,  etc.  etc.  We  thought  we  had  got 
into  fairyland.  But  that  went  off  (as  it  never  came  again 
—  while  we  stayed  we  had  no  more  fine  sunsets)  ;  and 
we  entered  Coleridge's  comfortable  study  just  in  the 
dusk,  when  the  mountains  were  all  dark  with  clouds 
upon  their  heads.  Such  an  impression  I  never  received 
from  objects  of  sight  before,  nor  do  I  suppose  I  can  ever 
again.  Glorious  creatures,  fine  old  fellows,  Skiddaw, 
etc.  I  never  shall  forget  ye,  how  ye  lay  about  that 
night,  like  an  intrenchment ;  gone  to  bed,  as  it  seemed 
for  the  night,  but  promising  that  ye  were  to  be  seen  in 
the  morning.  Coleridge  had  got  a  blazing  fire  in  his 
study;  which  is  a  large,  antique,  ill-shaped  room,  with 
an  old-fashioned  organ,  never  played  upon,  big  enough 
for  a  church,  shelves  of  scattered  folios,  an  yEolian  harp, 
and  an  old  sofa,  half-bed,  etc.  And  all  looking  out  upon 
the  last  fading  view  of  Skiddaw  and  his  broad-breasted 
brethren:  what  a  night!  Here  we  stayed  three  full 
weeks,  in  which  time  I  visited  Wordsworth's  cottage, 
where  we  stayed  a  day  or  two  with  the  Clarksons  (good 
people  and  most  hospitable,  at  whose  house  we  tarried 
one  day  and  night),  and  saw  Lloyd.  The  Words  worths 
were  gone  to  Calais.  They  have  since  been  in  London 
and  passed  much  time  with  us :  he  is  now  gone  into 
Yorkshire  to  be  married.  So  we  have  seen  Keswick, 
Grasmere,  Ambleside,  Ulswater  (where  the  Clarksons 
live),  and  a  place  at  the  other  end  of  Ulswater  —  I  forget 
120 


Lamb  discovers  the  Romantic 

the  name  —  to  which  we  travelled  on  a  very  sultry  day, 
over  the  middle  of  Helvellyn.  We  have  clambered  up 
to  the  top  of  Skiddaw,  and  I  have  waded  up  the  bed  of 
Lodore.  In  fine,  I  have  satisfied  myself,  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  that  which  tourists  call  romantic,  which 
I  very  much  suspected  before :  they  make  such  a 
spluttering  about  it,  and  toss  their  splendid  epithets 
around  them,  till  they  give  as  dim  a  light  as  at  four 
o'clock  next  morning  the  lamps  do  after  an  illumination. 
Mary  was  excessively  tired,  when  she  got  about  half-way 
up  Skiddaw,  but  we  came  to  a  cold  rill  (than  which 
nothing  can  be  imagined  more  cold,  running  over  cold 
stones),  and  with  the  reinforcement  of  a  draught  of  cold 
water  she  surmounted  it  most  manfully.  Oh,  its  fine 
black  head,  and  the  bleak  air  atop  of  it,  with  a  prospect 
of  mountains  all  about,  and  about,  making  you  giddy; 
and  then  Scotland  afar  off,  and  the  border  countries  so 
famous  in  song  and  ballad !  It  was  a  day  that  will  stand 
out,  like  a  mountain,  I  am  sure,  in  my  life.  But  I  am 
returned  (I  have  now  been  come  home  near  three  weeks 
—  I  was  a  month  out),  and  you  cannot  conceive  the 
degradation  I  felt  at  first,  from  being  accustomed  to 
wander  free  as  air  among  mountains,  and  bathe  in  rivers 
without  being  controlled  by  any  one,  to  come  home  and 
work.  I  felt  very  little.  I  had  been  dreaming  I  was  a 
very  great  man.  But  that  is  going  off,  and  I  find  I  shall 
conform  in  time  to  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  has 
pleased  God  to  call  me.  Besides,  after  all,  Fleet-Street 
and  the  Strand  are  better  places  to  live  in  for  good  and 
all  than  among  Skiddaw.  Still,  I  turn  back  to  those 
great  places  where  I  wandered  about,  participating  in 
their  greatness.  After  all,  I  could  not  live  in  Skiddaw. 
I  could  spend  a  year  —  two,  three  years  —  among  them, 
but  I  must  have  a  prospect  of  seeing  Fleet-Street  at  the 
121 


A  Diabolical  Resolution 

end  of  that  time,  or  I  should  mope  and  pine  away,  I 
know.  Still,  Skiddaw  is  a  fine  creature.  My  habits 
are  changing,  I  think  :  i.e.  from  drunk  to  sober.  Whether 
I  shall  be  happier  or  not  remains  to  be  proved.  I  shall 
certainly  be  more  happy  in  a  morning;  but  whether  I 
shall  not  sacrifice  the  fat,  and  the  marrow,  and  the 
kidneys,  i.e.  the  night,  the  glorious  care-drowning  night, 
that  heals  all  our  wrongs,  pours  wine  into  our  mortifica- 
tions, changes  the  scene  from  indifferent  and  flat  to 
bright  and  brilliant  !  —  O  Manning,  if  I  should  have 
formed  a  diabolical  resolution,  by  the  time  you  come  to 
England,  of  not  admitting  any  spirituous  liquors  into  my 
house,  will  you  be  my  guest  on  such  shameworthy  terms  ? 
Is  life,  with  such  limitations,  worth  trying?  The  truth 
is,  that  my  liquors  bring  a  nest  of  friendly  harpies  about 
my  house,  who  consume  me.  This  is  a  pitiful  tale  to  be 
read  at  St.  Gothard ;  but  it  is  just  now  nearest  my  heart. 
Fenwick  is  a  ruined  man.  He  is  hiding  himself  from 
his  creditors,  and  has  sent  his  wife  and  children  into  the 
country.  Fell,  my  other  drunken  companion  (that  has 
been:  nam  hie  ccestus  artemque  repono),  is  turned 
editor  of  a  "Naval  Chronicle."  Godwin  (with  a  pitiful 
artificial  wife)  continues  a  steady  friend,  though  the  same 
facility  does  not  remain  of  visiting  him  often.  That 
Bitch  has  detached  Marshall  from  his  house,  Marshall 
the  man  who  went  to  sleep  when  the  Ancient  Mariner 
was  reading :  the  old,  steady,  unalterable  friend  of  the 
Professor.  Holcroft  is  not  yet  come  to  town.  I  expect 
to  see  him,  and  will  deliver  your  message.  How  I  hate 
this  part  of  a  letter.  Things  come  crowding  in  to  say, 
and  no  room  for  'em.  Some  things  are  too  little  to  be 
told,  i.e.  to  have  a  preference ;  some  are  too  big  and 
circumstantial.  Thanks  for  yours,  which  was  most 
delicious.  Would  I  had  been  with  you,  benighted  etc. 
122 


Oliver  Goldsmith  Arrested 

I  fear  my  head  is  turned  with  wandering.  I  shall  never 
be  the  same  acquiescent  being.  Farewell ;  write  again 
quickly,  for  I  shall  not  like  to  hazard  a  letter,  not  know- 
ing where  the  fates  have  carried  you.  Farewell,  my 
dear  fellow.  C.  LAMB 


Oliver   Goldsmith   instructs  his  Uncle   Contarine   in 
Dutch  manners       "v>       ^>      ^>       ^>       <<^ 

LEYDEN  [1754] 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  suppose  by  this  time  I  am  accused 
of  either  neglect  or  ingratitude,  and  my  silence 
imputed  to  my  usual  slowness  of  writing.  But  believe 
me,  Sir,  when  I  say,  that  till  now  I  had  not  an  op- 
portunity of  sitting  down  with  that  ease  of  mind  which 
writing  required.  You  may  see  by  the  top  of  the  letter 
that  I  am  at  Leyden ;  but  of  my  journey  hither  you 
must  be  informed.  Some  time  after  the  receipt  of  your 
last,  I  embarked  for  Bordeaux,  on  board  a  Scotch  ship 
called  the  St.  Andrews,  Capt.  John  Wall,  master. 
The  ship  made  a  tolerable  appearance,  and  as  another 
inducement,  I  was  let  to  know  that  six  agreeable 
passengers  were  to  be  my  company.  Well,  we  were 
but  two  days  at  sea  when  a  storm  drove  us  into  a  city 
of  England  called  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  We  all  went 
ashore  to  refresh  us  after  the  fatigue  of  our  voyage. 
Seven  men  and  I  were  one  day  on  shore,  and  on  the 
following  evening  as  we  were  all  very  merry,  the  room 
door  bursts  open :  enters  a  sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers 
with  their  bayonets  screwed ;  and  puts  all  under  king's 
arrest.  It  seems  my  company  were  Scotchmen  in  the 
French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland  to  enlist 
soldiers  for  the  French  army.  I  endeavoured  all  I 
123 


A  Wanderer  in  Holland 

could  to  prove  my  innocence;  however,  I  remained  in 
prison  with  the  rest  a  fortnight,  and  with  difficulty  got 
off  even  then.  Dear  Sir,  keep  this  all  a  secret,  or  at 
least  say  it  was  for  debt;  for  if  it  were  once  known 
at  the  University,  I  should  hardly  get  a  degree.  But 
hear  how  Providence  interposed  in  my  favour;  the  ship 
was  gone  on  to  Bordeaux  before  I  got  from  prison,  and 
was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and  every 
one  of  the  crew  were  drowned.  It  happened  the  last 
great  storm.  There  was  a  ship  at  that  time  ready  for 
Holland.  I  embarked,  and  in  nine  days,  thank  my 
God,  I  arrived  safe  at  Rotterdam ;  whence  I  travelled 
by  land  to  Leyden ;  and  whence  I  now  write. 

You  may  expect  some  account  of  this  country,  and 
though  I  am  not  well  qualified  for  such  an  undertaking, 
yet  shall  I  endeavour  to  satisfy  some  part  of  your 
expectations.  Nothing  surprises  me  more  than  the 
books  every  day  published,  descriptive  of  the  manners 
of  this  country.  Any  young  man  who  takes  it  into  his 
head  to  publish  his  travels,  visits  the  countries  he 
intends  to  describe ;  passes  through  them  with  as  much 
inattention  as  his  valet  de  chambre\  and  consequently 
not  having  a  fund  himself  to  fill  a  volume,  he  applies 
to  those  who  wrote  before  him,  and  gives  us  the  manners 
of  a  country,  not  as  he  must  have  seen  them,  but  such 
as  they  might  have  been  fifty  years  before.  The  modern 
Dutchman  is  quite  a  different  creature  from  him  of 
former  times ;  he  in  everything  imitates  a  Frenchman, 
but  in  his  easy  disengaged  air,  which  is  the  result  of 
keeping  polite  company.  The  Dutchman  is  vastly  cere- 
monious, and  is  perhaps  exactly  what  a  Frenchman 
might  have  been  in  the  reign  of  Louis  xiv.  Such  are 
the  better  bred.  But  the  downright  Hollander  is  one 
of  the  oddest  figures  in  nature.  Upon  a  head  of  lank 
124 


Dutch  Women  and  Scotch 

hair  he  wears  a  half-cocked  narrow  hat  laced  with  black 
ribbon :  no  coat,  but  seven  waistcoats,  and  nine  pairs 
of  breeches ;  so  that  his  hips  reach  almost  up  to  his 
arm-pits.  This  well-clothed  vegetable  is  now  fit  to  see 
company,  or  make  love.  But  what  a  pleasing  creature 
is  the  object  of  his  appetite?  Why,  she  wears  a  large 
fur  cap  with  a  deal  of  Flanders  lace :  for  every  pair  of 
breeches  he  carries,  she  puts  on  two  petticoats. 

A  Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phlegmatic 
admirer  but  his  tobacco.  You  must  know,  Sir,  every 
woman  carries  in  her  hand  a  stove  with  cones  in  it, 
which,  when  she  sits,  she  snugs  under  her  petticoats ; 
and  at  this  chimney  dozing  Strephon  lights  his  pipe. 

I  take  it  that  this  continual  smoking  is  what  gives  the 
man  the  ruddy  healthful  complexion,  by  drawing  his 
superfluous  moisture,  while  the  woman,  deprived  of 
this  amusement,  overflows  with  such  viscidities  as  tint 
the  complexion,  and  give  that  paleness  of  visage  which 
low  fenny  grounds  and  moist  air  conspire  to  cause. 
A  Dutch  woman  and  Scotch  will  well  bear  an  opposition. 

The  one  pale  and  fat,  the  other  lean  and  ruddy:  the 
one  walks  as  if  she  were  straddling  after  a  go-cart,  and 
the  other  takes  too  masculine  a  stride.  I  shall  not 
endeavour  to  deprive  either  country  of  its  share  of 
beauty;  but  must  say,  that  of  all  objects  on  earth,  an 
English  farmers  daughter  is  most  charming.  Every 
woman  there  is  a  complete  beauty,  while  the  higher 
class  of  women  want  many  of  the  requisites  to  make 
them  even  tolerable.  Their  pleasures  here  are  very 
dull,  though  very  various.  You  may  smoke,  you  may 
doze ;  you  may  go  to  the  Italian  Comedy,  as  good  an 
amusement  as  either  of  the  former.  This  entertainment 
always  brings  in  Harlequin,  who  is  generally  a  magician, 
and  in  consequence  of  his  diabolical  art  performs  a 
125 


Mixed  Canal  Company 

thousand  tricks  on  the  credulity  of  the  persons  of  the 
Drama,  who  are  all  fools.  I  have  seen  the  pit  in  a  roar  of 
laughter  at  this  humour,  when  with  his  sword  he  touches 
the  glass  from  which  another  was  drinking.  It  was  not 
his  face  they  laughed  at,  for  that  was  masked.  They 
must  have  seen  something  vastly  queer  in  the  wooden 
sword,  that  neither  I,  nor  you,  Sir,  were  you  there, 
could  see. 

In  winter,  when  their  canals  are  frozen,  every  house 
is  forsaken,  and  all  people  are  on  the  ice ;  sleds 
drawn  by  horses,  and  skating,  are  at  that  time  the 
reigning  amusements. 

They  have  boats  here  that  slide  on  the  ice,  and  are 
driven  by  the  winds.  When  they  spread  all  their  sails 
they  go  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  a  minute,  and  their 
motion  is  so  rapid  the  eye  can  hardly  accompany  them. 
Their  ordinary  manner  of  travelling  is  very  cheap  and 
very  convenient :  they  sail  in  covered  boats  drawn  by 
horses ;  and  in  these  you  are  sure  to  rneet  people  of  all 
nations.  Here  the  Dutch  slumber,  the  French  chatter, 
and  the  English  play  at  cards.  Any  man  who  likes 
company  may  have  them  to  his  taste.  For  my  part  I 
generally  detached  myself  from  all  society,  and  was 
wholly  taken  up  in  observing  the  face  of  the  country. 
Nothing  can  equal  its  beauty;  wherever  I  turn  my  eye, 
fine  houses,  elegant  gardens,  statues,  grottos,  vistas, 
presented  themselves ;  but  when  you  enter  their  towns 
you  are  charmed  beyond  description.  No  misery  is  to 
be  seen  here ;  every  one  is  usefully  employed. 

Scotland  and  this  country  bear  the  highest  contrast. 
There  hills  and  rocks  intercept  every  prospect :  here  'tis 
all  continued  plain.  There  you  might  see  a  well 
dressed  duchess  issuing  from  a  dirty  close;  and  here 
a  dirty  Dutchman  inhabiting  a  palace.  The  Scotch 
126 


A  Dutchman  in  his  House 

may  be  compared  to  a  tulip  planted  in  dung;  but  I 
never  see  a  Dutchman  in  his  own  house  but  I  think  of 
a  magnificent  Egyptian  temple  dedicated  to  an  ox, 
Physic  is  by  no  means  taught  here  so  well  as  in 
Edinburgh ;  and  in  all  Leyden  there  are  but  four 
British  students,  owing  to  all  necessaries  being  so 
extremely  dear,  and  the  professors  so  very  lazy  (the 
chemical  professor  excepted,)  that  we  don't  much  care 
to  come  hither.  I  am  not  certain  how  long  my  stay 
here  may  be ;  however  I  expect  to  have  the  happiness 
of  seeing  you  at  Kilmore,  if  I  can,  next  March. 

Direct  to  me,  if  I  am  honoured  with  a  letter  from 
you,  to  Madame  Diallion's  at  Leyden. 

Thou  best  of  men,  may  Heaven  guard  and  preserve 
you,  and  those  you  love.  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

John  Keats  describes  Winchester    ^>        xv>        *^y 

WINCHESTER,  September  22,  1819 

MY  DEAR  REYNOLDS, —  I  was  very  glad  to 
hear  from  Woodhouse  that  you  would  meet  in 
the  country.  I  hope  you  will  pass  some  pleasant  time 
together.  Which  I  wish  to  make  pleasanter  by  a  brace 
of  letters,  very  highly  to  be  estimated,  as  really  I  have 
had  very  bad  luck  with  this  sort  of  game  this  season. 
I  "  kepen  in  solitarinesse,"  for  Brown  has  gone  a-visiting. 
I  am  surprised  myself  at  the  pleasure  I  live  alone  in.  I 
can  give  you  no  news  of  the  place  here,  or  any  other 
idea  of  it  but  what  I  have  to  this  effect  written  to  George. 

Yesterday  I  say  to  him  was  a  grand  day  for  Winchester. 

They  elected  a  Mayor.  It  was  indeed  high  time  the 
place  should  receive  some  sort  of  excitement. 

There  was  nothing  going  on :  all  asleep :  not  an  old 
127 


Discreet  Winchester 

maid's  sedan  returning  from  a  card-party :  and  if  any  old 
women  got  tipsy  at  Christenings  they  did  not  expose  it 
in  the  streets.  The  first  night  tho'  of  our  arrival  here 
there  was  a  slight  uproar  took  place  at  about  ten  o'  the 
Clock. 

We  heard  distinctly  a  'noise  patting  down  the  High 
Street  as  of  a  walking  cane  of  the  good  old  Dowager 
breed ;  and  a  little  minute  after  we  heard  a  less  voice 
observe,  u  What  a  noise  the  ferril  made — it  must  be  loose." 

Brown  wanted  to  call  the  constables,  but  I  observed  it 
was  only  a  little  breeze,  and  would  soon  pass  over. 

The  side  streets  here  are  excessively  maiden-ladylike : 
the  door-steps  always  fresh  from  the  flannel. 

The  knockers  have  a  staid,  serious,  nay  almost  awful 
quietness  about  them.  I  never  saw  so  quiet  a  collection 
of  Lions'  and  Rams'  heads. 

The  doors  are  most  part  black,  with  a  little  brass 
handle  just  above  the  keyhole,  so  that  in  Winchester  a 
man  may  very  quietly  shut  himself  out  of  his  own  house. 
How  beautiful  the  season  is  now  —  How  fine  the  air — a 
temperate  sharpness  about  it.  Really,  without  joking, 
chaste  weather — Dian  skies  —  I  never  liked  stubble-field 
so  much  as  now  —  Aye  better  than  the  chilly  green  of  the 
Spring.  Somehow,  a  stubble-field  looks  warm  —  in  the 
same  way  that  some  pictures  look  warm. 

This  struck  me  so  much  in  my  Sunday^s  walk  that  I 
composed  upon  it.  I  hope  you  are  better  employed  than 
in  gaping  after  weather.  I  have  been  at  different  times 
so  happy  as  not  to  know  what  weather  it  was  —  No,  I  will 
not  copy  a  parcel  of  verses. 

I  always  somehow  associate  Chatterton  with   autumn. 
He  is  the  purest  writer  in  the  English  Language.     He 
has    no   French   idiom    or  particles,   like   Chaucer  —  'tis 
genuine  English  Idiom  in  English  words. 
128 


The  Prettiest  "Ees" 

I  have  given  up  Hyperion  —  there  were  too  many  Mil- 
tonic  inversions  in  it  — Miltonic  verse  cannot  be  written, 
but  in  an  artful,  or  rather,  artist's  humour. 

I  wish  to  give  myself  up  to. other  sensations.  English 
ought  to  be  kept  up.  It  may  be  interesting  to  you  to  pick 
out  some  lines  from  Hyperion  and  put  a  mark  +  to  the 
false  beauty  proceeding  from  art,  and  one  ||  to  the  true 
voice  of  feeling. 

Upon  my  soul 'twas  imagination  —  I  cannot  make  the 
distinction  —  Every  now  and  then  there  is  a  Miltonic  into- 
nation—  But  I  cannot  make  the  division  properly.  .  .  . 

I  shall  beg  leave  to  have  a  third  opinion  in  the  first  dis- 
cussion you  have  with  Woodhouse  — just  half-way,  between 
both.  You  know  I  will  not  give  up  my  argument  —  In  my 
walk  to-day  I  stoop'd  under  a  railing  that  lay  across  my 
path, and  asked  myself,  "  Why  I  did  not  get  over?  "  "  Be- 
cause," answered  I,  "  no  one  wanted  to  force  you  under." 

I  would  give  a  guinea  to  be  a  reasonable  man — good 
sound  sense  —  a  says  what  he  thinks  and  does  what  he 
says  man  —  and  did  not  take  snuff.  They  say  men  near 
death,  however  mad  they  may  have  been,  come  to  their 
senses.  I  hope  I  shall  here,  in  this  letter;  there  is  a 
decent  space  to  be  very  sensible  in ;  many  a  good  proverb 
has  been  in  less  —  nay,  I  have  heard  of  the  statutes  a£  large 
being  changed  into  the  statutes  at  small  and  printed  for 
a  watch  paper.  Your  sisters,  by  this  time,  must  have  got 
the  Devonshire  "  ees  "  —  short  ees,  you  know  'em  —  they 
are  the  prettiest  ees  in  the  language.  O,  how  I  admire  the 
middle-sized,  delicate,  Devonshire  girls  of  about  fifteen. 
There  was  one  at  an  inn  door  holding  a  quartern  of  brandy 
—  the  very  thought  of  her  kept  me  warm  a  whole  stage  — 
and  a  sixteen-miler  too.  "  You'll  pardon  me  for  being 
jocular."  —  Ever  your  affectionate  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS, 
K  129 


Helvellyn  and   Lodore 
John  Keats  and  Charles  Brown  discover  Scotland  "^ 

I 
(To  Thomas  Keats) 

KESWICK,  June  29,  1818 

MY  DEAR  TOM,  —  I  cannot  make  my  journal  as 
distinct  and  actual  as  I  could  wish,  from  having 
been  engaged  in  writing  to  George,  and  therefore  I  must 
tell  you,  without  circumstance,  that  we  proceeded  from 
Ambleside  to  Rydal,  saw  the  waterfalls  there,  and  called 
on  Wordsworth  who  was  not  at  home,  nor  was  any  one 
of  his  family.  I  wrote  a  note  and  left  it  on  the  mantel-piece. 

Thence  on  we  came  to  the  foot  of  Helvellyn,  where  we 
slept,  but  could  not  ascend  it  for  the  mist. 

I  must  mention  that  from  Rydal  we  passed  Thirlswater, 
and  a  fine  pass  in  the  Mountains  —  from  Helvellyn  we  came 
to  Keswick  on  Derwent  Water.  The  approach  to  Derwent 
Water  surpassed  Windermere  —  it  is  richly  wooded,  and 
shut  in  with  rich-toned  mountains. 

From  Helvellyn  to  Keswick  was  eight  miles  to  break- 
fast, after  which  we  took  a  complete  circuit  of  the  Lake, 
going  about  ten  miles,  and  seeing  on  our  way  the  Fall  of 
Lowdore. 

I  had  an  easy  climb  among  the  streams,  about  the 
fragments  of  Rocks,  and  should  have  got  I  think  to  the 
summit,  but  unfortunately  I  was  damped  by  slipping  one 
leg  into  a  squashy  hole. 

There  is  no  great  body  of  water,  but  the  accompaniment 
is  delightful ;  for  it  oozes  out  from  a  cleft  in  perpendicular 
Rocks,  all  fledged  with  ash  and  other  beautiful  trees.  It 
is  a  strange  thing  how  they  got  there.  At  the  south  end 
of  the  Lake  the  Mountains  of  Borrowdale  are  perhaps  as 
fine  as  anything  we  have  seen. 
130 


Skiddaw  and  Rydal   Mount 

On  our  return  from  this  circuit  we  ordered  dinner,  and 
set  forth  about  a  mile  and  a  half  on  the  Penrith  road,  to 
see  the  Druid  temple.  We  had  a  fag  'up  hill,  rather  too 
near  dinner-time,  which  was  rendered  void  by  the  gratifi- 
cation of  seeing  those  aged  stones  on  a  gentle  rise 
in  the  midst  of  the  Mountains,  which  at  that  time  dark- 
ened all  around,  except  at  the  fresh  opening  of  the  Vale 
of  St.  John.  We  went  to  bed  rather  fatigued,  but  not  so 
much  so  as  to  hinder  us  getting  up  this  morning  to  Mount 
Skiddaw. 

It  promised  all  along  to  be  fair,  and  we  had  fagged  and 
tugged  nearly  to  the  top,  when,  at  half-past  six,  there  came 
a  Mist  upon  us,  and  shut  out  the  view. 

We  did  not,  however,  lose  anything  by  it ;  we  were  high 
enough  without  mist  to  see  the  coast  of  Scotland  —  the 
Irish  Sea  —  the  hills  beyond  Lancaster  —  and  nearly  all 
the  large  ones  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  particu- 
larly Helvellyn  and  Scawfell. 

It  grew  colder  and  colder  as  we  ascended,  and  we  were 
glad,  at  about  three  parts  of  the  way,  to  taste  a  little  rum 
which  the  Guide  brought  with  him,  mixed,  mind  ye?  with 
Mountain  water. 

I  took  two  glasses  going  and  one  returning.  It  is 
about  six  miles  from  where  I  am  writing  to  the  top.  So 
we  have  walked  ten  miles  before  breakfast  to-day.  We 
went  up  with  two  others,  very  good  sort  of  fellows.  All  felt, 
on  arising  into  the  cold  air,  that  same  elevation  which 
a  cold  bath  gives  one  —  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  to  a 
Tournament. 

.Wordsworth's  house  is  situated  just  on  the  rise  of  the 
foot  of  Mount  Rydal ;  his  parlour-window  looks  directly 
down  Windermere.  I  do  not  think  I  told  you  how  fine 
the  Vale  of  Grasmere  is,  and  how  I  discovered  "the 
ancient  woman  seated  on  Helm  Crag."  We  shall  pro- 
131 


"  One  Exquisite  Mouth  " 

ceed  immediately  to  Carlisle,  intending  to  enter  Scotland 
on  the  1st  of  July  vi&. 

July  i,  1818.-=— We  are  this  morning  at  Carlisle. 
After  Skiddaw,  we  walked  to  Ireby,  the  oldest  market 
town  in  Cumberland,  where  we  were  greatly  amused  by 
a  country  dancing-school  holden  at  the  Tun,  it  was 
indeed  "  no  new  cotillion  fresh  from  France."  No,  they 
kickit  and  jumpit  with  mettle  extraordinary,  and  whiskit 
and  friskit,  and  toed  it,  and  goM  it,  and  twiiTd  it,  and 
whirl'd  it,  and  stamped  it,  and  sweated  it,  tattooing  the 
floor  like  mad.  The  difference  between  our  country 
dances  and  these  Scottish  figures  is  about  the  same  as 
leisurely  stirring  a  cup  o'  Tea  and  beating  up  a  batter- 
pudding. 

I  was  extremely  gratified  to  think  that,  if  I  had  pleasures 
they  knew  nothing  of,  they  had  also  some  into  which  I  could 
not  possibly  enter. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  return  without  having  got  the  High- 
land fling. 

There  was  as  fine  a  row  of  boys  and  girls  as  you  ever 
saw ;  some  beautiful  faces,  and  one  exquisite  mouth. 

I  never  felt  so  near  the  glory  of  Patriotism,  the  glory  of 
making  by  any  means  a  country  happier. 

This  is  what  I  like  better  than  scenery.  I  fear  our  con- 
tinued moving  from  place  to  place  will  prevent  our  be- 
coming learned  in  village  affairs ;  we  are  mere  creatures 
of  Rivers,  Lakes,  and  Mountains.  Our  yesterday's  jour- 
ney was  from  Ireby  to  Wigton,  and  from  Wigton  to 
Carlisle. 

The  Cathedral  does  not  appear  very  fine  —  the  Castle  is 
very  ancient,  and  of  brick.  The  City  is  very  various  — 
old  white-washed  narrow  streets  —  broad  red-brick  ones 
more  modern  —  I  will  tell  you  anon  whether  the  inside  of 
the  cathedral  is  worth  looking  at. 
132 


In  Praise  of  Burns 

It  is  built  of  sandy  red  stone  or  Brick. 

We  have  now  walked  114  miles,  and  are  merely  a  little 
tired  in  the  thighs  and  a  little  blistered. 

We  shall  ride  38  miles  to  Dumfries,  when  we  shall 
linger  awhile  about  Nithsdale  and  Galloway.  I  have 
written  two  letters  to  Liverpool.  I  found  a  letter  from 
sister  George ;  very  delightful  indeed :  I  shall  preserve  it 
in  the  bottom  of  my  knapsack  for  you. 

The  town,  the  churchyard,  and  the  setting  sun, 
The  Clouds,  the  trees,  the  rounded  hills  all  seem, 
Though  beautiful,  cold  —  strange  —  as  in  a  dream, 
I  dreamed,  long  ago,  now  new  begun, 
The  short-liv'd,  paly  summer  is  but  won 
From  winter's  ague,  for  one  hour's  gleam ; 
Though  sapphire  —  warm,  their  stars  do  never  beam : 
All  is  cold  Beauty ;  pain  is  never  done : 
For  who  has  mind  to  relish,  Minos-wise, 
The  real  of  beauty,  free  from  that  dead  hue, 

Sickly  imagination,  and  sick  pride, 
•    Cast  wan  upon  it !     Burns !  with  honour  due, 

I  oft  have  honour'd  thee.     Great  shadow,  hide 
Thy  face ;  I  sin  against  thy  native  skies. 

July  2  1818.  — You  will  see  by  this  sonnet  that  I  am  at 
Dumfries.  We  have  dined  in  Scotland.  Burns's  tomb  is 
in  the  Churchyard  corner,  not  very  much  to  my  taste, 
though  on  a  scale  large  enough  to  show  they  wanted  to 
honour  him. 

Mrs.  Burns  lives  in  this  place ;  most  likely  we  shall  see 
her  to-morrow.  This  sonnet  I  have  written  in  a  strange 
mood,  half-asleep.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  the  clouds, 
the  sky,  the  houses,  all  seem  anti-Grecian  and  anti- 
Charlemagnish.  I  will  endeavour  to  get  rid  of  my  preju- 
dices and  tell  you  fairly  about  the  Scotch. 

In  Devonshire  they  say,  "  Well,  where  be  ye  going  ?  " 
Here  it  is,  "  How  is  it  wi1  yoursel1  ? "  A  man  on  the 
133 


"Very  Pretty  Drink" 

Coach  said  the  horses  took  a  Hellish  heap  o'  drivin' ;  the 
same  fellow  pointed  out  Burns's  tomb  with  a  deal  of 
life  —  "  There !  de  ye  see  it,  amang  the  trees  —  white,  wi'  a 
roond  tap?"  The  first  well-dressed  Scotchman  we  had 
any  conversation  with,  to  our  surprise,  confessed  himself 
a  Deist.  The  careful  manner  of  delivering  his  opinions, 
not  before  he  had  received  several  encouraging  hints  from 
us,  was  very  amusing. 

Yesterday  was  an  immense  horse-fair  at  Dumfries,  so 
that  we  met  numbers  of  men  and  women  on  the  road ; 
the  women  nearly  all  barefoot,  with  their  shoes  and 
clean  stockings  in  hand,  ready  to  put  on  and  look  smart 
in  the  towns. 

There  are  plenty  of  wretched  cottages  whose  smoke 
has  no  outlet  but  by  the  door.  We  have  now  begun 
upon  Whisky,  called  here  "  whuskey," — very  smart  stuff 
it  is.  Mixed  like  our  liquors,  with  sugar  and  water,  His 
called  toddy;  very  pretty  drink,  and  much  praised  by 
Burns. 

II 

M AYBOLE,  July  ii,  1 8 1 8 

MY    DEAR    REYNOLDS,  — We    were    talking    on 
different    and     indifferent     things     when,     on     a 
sudden,  we  turned  a  corner  upon  the  immediate  country 
of  Ayr  —  the  sight  was  as  rich  as  possible. 

I  had  no  Conception  that  the  native  place  of  Burns 
was  so  beautiful  —  the  idea  I  had  was  more  desolate, 
his  "Rigs  of  Barley"  seemed  always  to  me  but  a  few 
strips  of  Green  on  a  cold  hill  —  O  prejudice!  it  was  as 
rich  as  Devon  —  I  endeavoured  to  drink  in  the  Prospect, 
that  I  might  spin  it  out  to  you,  as  the  Silkworm  makes 
silk  from  Mulberry  leaves  —  I  cannot  recollect  it.  Besides 
all  the  Beauty,  there  were  the  mountains  of  Arran  Isle, 
'34 


Letter-opening  Humour 

black  and  huge  over  the  sea.  We  came  down  upon 
everything  suddenly  —  there  were  in  our  way  the  "  Bonny 
Doon,"  with  the  Brig  that  Tain  o'  Shanter  crossed,  Kirk 
Alloway,  Burns's  Cottage,  and  the  Brigs  of  Ayr.  First  we 
stood  upon  the  Bridge  across  the  Doon ;  surrounded  by 
every  Phantasy  of  green  in  Tree,  Meadow,  and  Hill,  —  the 
stream  of  the  Doon,  as  a  Farmer  told  us,  is  covered  with 
trees  "  from  head  to  foot "  —  you  know  those  beautiful 
heaths  so  fresh  against  the  weather  of  a  summer's 
evening  —  there  was  one  stretching  along  behind  the 
trees. 

I  wish  I  knew  always  the  humour  my  friends  would 
be  in  at  opening  a  letter  of  mine,  to  suit  it  to  them  as 
nearly  as  possible.  I  could  always  find  an  egg-shell  for 
Melancholy,  and  as  for  Merriment  a  Witty  humour  will 
turn  anything  to  Account.  My  head  is  sometimes  in  such 
a  whirl  in  considering  the  million  likings  and  antipathies 
of  our  Moments  —  that  I  can  get  into  no  settled  strain 
in  my  Letters.  My  Wig!  Burns  and  sentimentality 
coming  across  you  and  Frank  Floodgate  in  the  office  — 
O  Scenery,  that  thou  shouldst  be  crushed  between  two 
Puns! 

As  for  them  I  venture  the  rascalliest  in  the  Scotch 
Region  —  I  hope  Brown  does  not  put  them  punctually 
in  his  journal  —  if  he  does  I  must  sit  on  the  cutty-stool 
all  next  winter. 

We  went  to  Kirk  Alloway  —  "a  Prophet  is  no  Prophet 
in  his  own  Country."  We  went  to  the  Cottage  and  took 
some  Whiskey.  I  wrote  a  sonnet  for  the  mere  sake  of 
writing  some  lines  under  the  roof — they  are  so  bad  I 
cannot  transcribe  them. 

The  Man  at  the  Cottage  was  a  great  Bore  with  his 
Anecdotes  —  I  hate  the  rascal  —  his  life  consists  of  fuz, 
fuzzy,  fuzziest.  He  drinks  glasses  five  for  the  Quarter 
'35 


Robbie  Revealed 

and  twelve  for  the  hour  —  he  is  a  mahogany-faced  old 
Jackass  who  knew  Burns.  He  ought  to  have  been  kicked 
for  having  spoken  to  him.  He  calls  himself  "a  curious 
old  Bitch  "  —  but  he  is  a  flat  old  dog  —  I  should  like  to 
employ  Caliph  Vathek  to  kick  him.  O  the  flummery  of 
a  birthplace  !  Cant  !  cant  !  cant ! 

It  is  enough  to  give  a  spirit  the  guts-ache.  Many  a  true 
word,  they  say,  is  spoken  in  jest  —  this  may  be  because  his 
gab  hindered  my  sublimity :  the  flat  dog  made  me  write  a 
flat  sonnet. 

My  dear  Reynolds  —  I  cannot  write  about  scenery  and 
visitings  —  Fancy  is  indeed  less  than  a  present  palpable 
reality,  but  it  is  greater  than  remembrance — you  would 
lift  your  eyes  from  Homer  only  to  see  close  before  you 
the  real  Isle  of  Tenedos  —  you  would  rather  read  Homer 
afterwards  than  remember  yourself. 

One  song  of  Burns's  is  of  more  worth  to  you  than  all 
I  could  think  for  a  whole  year  in  his  native  country. 
His  Misery  is  a  dead  weight  upon  the  nimbleness  of  one's 
quill.  I  tried  to  forget  it  —  to  drink  Toddy  without  any 
Care  —  to  write  a  merry  sonnet ;  it  won't  do  —  he  talked 
with  Bitches  —  he  drank  with  blackguards,  he  was  miser- 
able. We  can  see  horribly  clear,  in  the  works  of  such  a 
Man,  his  whole  life,  as  if  we  were  God's  spies.  What 
were  his  addresses  to  Jean  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  ? 
I  should  not  speak  so  to  you  —  yet  why  not  —  you  are  not 
in  the  same  case  —  you  are  in  the  right  path,  and  you  shall 
not  be  deceived. 

I  have  spoken  to  you  against  Marriage,  but  it  was 
general ;  the  Prospect  in  those  matters  has  been  so  blank, 
that  I  have  not  been  unwilling  to  die  —  I  would  not 
now,  for  I  have  inducements  to  Life  —  I  must  see  my 
little  Nephews  in  America,  and  I  must  see  you  marry 
your  lovely  Wife.  My  sensations  are  sometimes  deadened 

136 


One  Imperishable   Memory 

for  weeks  together  —  but  believe  me  I  have  more  than 
once  yearned  for  the  time  of  your  happiness  to  come, 
as  much  as  I  could  for  myself  after  the  lips  of 
Juliet. 

From  the  tenor  of  my  occasional  rhodomontade  in  chit- 
chat you  might  have  been  deceived  concerning  me  on 
these  points  —  upon  my  soul,  I  have  been  getting  more 
and  more  close  to  you,  every  day,  ever  since  I  knew  you, 
and  now  one  of  the  first  pleasures  I  look  to  is  your  happy 
Marriage  —  the  more,  since  I  have  felt  the  pleasure  of 
loving  a  sister  in  law.  I  did  not  think  it  possible  to 
become  so  much  attached  in  so  short  a  time. 

Things  like  these,  and  they  are  real,  have  made  me 
resolve  to  have  a  care  of  my  health  —  you  must  be  as 
careful. 

The  rain  has  stopped  us  to-day  at  the  end  of  a  dozen 
miles,  yet  we  hope  to  see  Loch  Lomond  the  day  after 
to-morrow ;  —  I  will  piddle  out  my  information,  as  Rice 
says,  next  winter,  at  any  time  when  a  substitute  is  wanted 
for  Vingt-un. 

We  bear  the  fatigue  very  well  —  twenty  miles  a  day  in 
general. 

A  cloud  came  over  us  in  getting  up  Skiddaw  —  I  hope 
to  be  more  lucky  in  Ben  Lomond  —  and  more  lucky  still 
in  Ben  Nevis. 

What  I  think  you  would  enjoy  is  poking  about  Ruins, 
sometimes  Abbey,  sometimes  Castle. 

The  short  stay  we  made  in  Ireland  has  left  few 
remembrances  —  but  an  old  woman  in  a  dog-kennel 
Sedan  with  a  pipe  in  her  Mouth,  is  what  I  can  never 
forget — I  wish  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
her.  Remember  me  to  your  Mother  and  Sisters,  and 
tell  your  Mother  how  I  hope  she  will  pardon  me  for 
having  a  scrap  of  paper  pasted  in  the  Book  sent  to  her. 
137 


The  Idle  Life 

I  was  driven  on  all  sides  and  had  not  time  to  call  on 
Taylor.  So  Bailey  is  coming  to  Cumberland  —  Well,  if 
you'll  let  me  know  where  at  Inverness,  I  will  call  on 
my  return  and  pass  a  little  time  with  him.  I  am  glad  His 
not  Scotland. 

Tell  my  friends  I  do  all  I  can  for  them,  that  is,  drink 
their  healths  in  Toddy.  Perhaps  I  may  have  some  lines 
by  and  by  to  send  you  fresh,  on  your  own  Letter  —  Tom 
has  a  few  to  show  you.  —  Your  affectionate  friend, 

JOHN  KEATS 


Edward  FitzGerald  on  Bedfordshire  and  the  Irish  -^ 

BOULGE  HALL,  August  14,  1839 

MY  DEAR  POLLOCK,  —  I  came  here  only  yesterday, 
and  your  letter  was  brought  up  into  my  bedroom 
only  this  morning.  What  are  you  doing  at  Blinfield  ? 
rusticating  there  for  fun  with  your  family,  or  are  there 
Assizes  at  such  a  place  ?  And  is  the  juvenile  party  you 
speak  of  assisting  at,  one  of  juvenile  depredators  ? 
Well,  I  have  been  in  my  dear  old  Bedfordshire  ever 
since  I  saw  you :  lounging  in  the  country,  lying  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ouse,  smoking,  eating  copious  teas 
(prefaced  with  beer)  in  the  country  pot-houses,  and  have 
come  mourning  here :  finding  an  empty  house  when  I 
expected  a  full  one,  and  no  river  Ouse,  and  no  jolly 
boy  to  whistle  the  time  away  with.  Such  are  the  little 
disasters  and  miseries  under  which  I  labour:  quite 
enough,  however,  to  make  one  wish  to  kill  oneself  at 
times. 

This  all  comes  of  having  no  occupation  or  sticking 
point :  so  one's  thoughts  go  floating  about  in  a  gossamer 
way.  At  least  this  is  what  I  hear  on  all  sides.  So 

138 


The  Waterford  Women 

you  are  going  with  Monteith's  party  to  Ireland.  Well, 
I  think  you  will  have  a  pleasant  trip. 

I  think  I  shall  probably  be  in  Ireland  all  September, 
but  far  away  from  your  doings. 

Not  to  mention  that  I  shall  be  on  shore  and  you  at  sea. 

You  will  go  and  see  the  North  Coast,  which  I  am 
anxious  to  see,  and  shall  not  unlikely  go  too,  about  the 
time  of  the  equinoctial  gales,  when  such  places  should 
be  seen.  I  love  Ireland  very  much,  I  don't  know  why: 
the  country  and  the  people  and  all  are  very  homo- 
geneous ;  mournful  and  humorous  somehow :  just  like 
their  natural  music. 

Some  of  Tommy  Moore's  Irish  Ballads  (the  airs,  I 
mean)  are  the  spirits  of  the  Waterford  women  made 
music  of.  You  should  see  them,  Pollock,  on  a  Sunday, 
as  they  come  from  Chapel  in  their  long,  blue  cloaks. 
Don't  you  think  that  blue  eyes  and  black  hair,  and 
especially  with  long,  black  eyelashes,  have  a  mystery 
about  them? 

This  day  week  a  dozen  poor  fellows  who  had  walked 
all  the  way  from  the  county  Mayo  into  Bedfordshire, 
came  up  to  the  door  of  the  Inn  where  we  were  fishing, 
and  calle'd  for  small  beer.  We  made  their  hearts  merry 
with  good  ale ;  and  they  went  off  flourishing  their  sticks, 
hoping  all  things,  enduring  all  things,  and  singing  some 
loose  things. 

You  must  contrive  to  see  something  of  the  people  when 
you  go  to  Ireland :  I  think  that  is  the  great  part  of  the 
fun.  You  should  certainly  go  some  miles  in  or  on  an 
Irish  Stage  Coach,  and  also  on  a  jaunting  Car.  I 
never  saw  Wimpole  near  Cambridge  until  the  other 
day  when  I  passed  it  on  my  way  from  Bedfordshire. 
Did  you  ever  go  and  see  it?  People  always  told  me 
it  was  not  worth  seeing :  which  is  another  reason  for 

139 


Self-Depreciation 

believing  nothing  people  tell  one :  it  is  a  very  noble  old 
Queen  Anne's  building  of  red  brick,  in  the  way  of 
Hampton  Court  (not  half  so  fine,  but  something  in  that 
way),  looking  down  two  miles  of  greensward  as  broad 
as  itself,  skirted  on  each  side  with  fine  elms.  I  did  not 
go  inside,  but  I  believe  the  pictures  are  well  worth  seeing. 
Houses  of  that  style  have  far  more  mark  and  character 
than  Woburn  and  the  modern  bastard  Grecian.  I  see 
they  have  built  a  new  chapel  at  Barnwell  —  of  red  brick 
and  very  well  done.  I  should  think  Peacock  must  have 
done  it. 

Fancy  his  being  Dean  of  Barnwell.  Cambridge 
looked  very  ghastly,  and  the  hard-reading,  pale, 
dwindled  students  walking  along  the  Observatory  road 
looked  as  if  they  were  only  fit  to  have  their  necks 
wrung.  I  scorn  my  nerveless  carcase  more  and  more 
every  day  —  but  there's  no  good  in  talking. 

Farewell,  my  dear  Pollock ;  I  know  this  is  a  very 
worthless  letter:  but  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  write, 
and  I  have  nothing  better  to  do  to-day  than  to  write 
ever  such  vapid  stuff. 

I  would  ask  you  if  Spedding  were  still  in  London,  if 
your  Yes  or  No  (never  very  clamorously  uttered  by  you) 
could  reach  me  from  Binfield.  But  even  then  I  should 
not  be  much  the  better  for  the  Information. 


Lord    Byron    informs    Mr.   Hodgson   of    his    daily 
routine       ^>       ^c>         ^>       x^>       ^>       ^> 

LISBON,  July  16,  1809 

THUS  far  have  we  pursued  our  route,   and   seen  all 
sorts  of  marvellous  sights,  palaces,  convents,  etc., — 
which,  being  to  be  heard  in  my  friend  Hobhouse's  forth- 
140 


Portuguese  Oaths 

coming  Book  of  Travels,  I  shall  not  anticipate  by 
smuggling  any  account  whatsoever  to  you  in  a  private 
and  clandestine  manner.  I  must  just  observe,  that  the 
village  of  Cintra  in  Estremadura  is  the  most  beautiful, 
perhaps,  in  the  world. 

I  am  very  happy  here,  because  I  love  oranges,  and 
talk  bad  Latin  to  the  monks,  who  understand  it,  as  it  is 
like  their  own,  and  I  goes  into  society  (with  my  pocket 
pistols),  and  I  swims  in  the  Tagus  all  across  at  once,  and 
I  rides  on  an  ass  or  a  mule,  and  swears  Portuguese,  and 
have  got  a  diarrhoea  and  bites  from  the  mosquitoes. 
But  what  of  that?  Comfort  must  not  be  expected  by 
folks  that  go  a-pleasuring.  When  the  Portuguese  are 
pertinacious,  I  say  "  Carracho ! "  —  the  great  oath  of  the 
Grandees,  that  very  well  supplies  the  place  of  "Damme!" 
—  and  when  dissatisfied  with  my  neighbour,  I  pronounce 
him  "  Ambra  di  merdo."  With  these  two  phrases  and 
a  third,  "  Avra  bouro,"  which  signifies,  "  Get  an  ass,"  I 
am  universally  understood  to  be  a  person  of  degree  and 
a  master  of  languages.  How  merrily  we  lives  that 
travellers  be.!  —  if  we  had  food  and  raiment.  But,  in 
sober  sadness,  anything  is  better  than  England,  and 
I  am  infinitely  amused  with  my  pilgrimage,  as  far  as  it 
has  gone. 

To-morrow  we  start  to  ride  post  near  400  miles  as  far 
as  Gibraltar,  where  we  embark  for  Melita  and  Byzantium. 
A  letter  to  Malta  will  find  me,  or  to  be  forwarded,  if  I 
am  absent.  Pray  embrace  the  Drury  and  Dwyer,  and  all 
the  Ephesians  you  encounter.  I  am  writing  with  Butler's 
donative  pencil,  which  makes  my  bad  hand  worse. 
Excuse  illegibility. 

Hodgson!  send  me  the  news,  and  the  deaths  and 
defeats,  and  capital  crimes,  and  the  misfortunes  of  one's 
friends ;  and  let  us  hear  of  literary  matters,  and  the 
141 


The  Coliseum 

controversies  and  the  criticisms.  All  this  will  be 
pleasant  — "Suave,  mari  magno,  etc."  Talking  of  that, 
I  have  been  sea-sick,  and  sick  of  the  sea.  Adieu.  —  Yours 
faithfully,  etc. 

Shelley  in  the  Coliseum        <^x        "^        -^        *^ 
(To  Thomas  Love  Peacock) 

NAPLES,  December  22,  1818 

SINCE  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  have  seen  the  ruins  of 
Rome,  the  Vatican,  St.  Peter's,  and  all  the  miracles 
of  ancient  and  modern  art  contained  in  that  majestic 
city.  The  impression  of  it  exceeds  anything  I  have 
experienced  in  my  travels.  We  stayed  there  only  a 
week,  intending  to  return  at  the  end  of  February,  and 
devote  two  or  three  months  to  its  mines  of  inexhaustible 
contemplation,  to  which  period  I  refer  you  for  a  minute 
account  of  it.  We  visited  the  Forum  and  the  ruins  of 
the  Coliseum  every  day.  The  Coliseum  is  unlike  any 
work  of  human  hands  I  ever  saw  before.  It  is  of 
enormous  height  and  circuit,  and  arches  built  of  massy 
stones  are  piled  on  one  another,  and  jut  into  the  blue 
air  shattered  into  the  forms  of  overhanging  rocks.  It 
has  been  changed  by  time  into  the  image  of  an  amphi- 
theatre of  rocky  hills  overgrown  by  the  wild  olive,  the 
myrtle,  and  the  fig-tree,  and  threaded  by  little  paths 
which  wind  among  its  ruined  stairs  and  immeasurable 
galleries ;  the  copse-wood  overshadows  you  as  you 
wander  through  its  labyrinths,  and  the  wild  weeds  of 
this  climate  of  flowers  bloom  under  your  feet.  The 
arena  is  covered  with  grass,  and  pierces,  like  the  skirts 
of  a  natural  plain,  the  chasms  of  the  broken  arches 
around.  But  a  small  part  of  the  exterior  circumference 
142 


Wrecks  of  Rome 

remains;  it  is  exquisitely  light  and  beautiful,  and  the 
effect  of  the  perfection  of  its  architecture,  adorned  with 
ranges  of  Corinthian  pilasters,  supporting  a  bold  cornice, 
is  such  as  to  diminish  the  effect  of  its  greatness.  The 
interior  is  all  ruin.  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  when 
encrusted  with  Dorian  marble  and  ornamented  by 
columns  of  Egyptian  granite,  its  effect  could  have  been 
so  sublime  and  so  impressive  as  in  its  present  state. 
It  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  it  was  the  clear  and  sunny 
weather  of  the  end  of  November  in  this  climate  when 
we  visited  it,  day  after  day. 

Near  it  is  the  Arch  of  Constantine,  or  rather  the  Arch 
of  Trajan ;  for  the  servile  and  avaricious  senate  of 
degraded  Rome  ordered  that  the  monument  of  his 
predecessor  should  be  demolished  in  order  to  dedicate 
one  to  the  Christian  reptile,  who  had  crept  among  the 
blood  of  his  murdered  family  to  the  supreme  power. 
It  is  exquisitely  beautiful  and  perfect.  The  Forum  is 
a  plain  in  the  midst  of  Rome,  a  kind  of  desert  full  of 
heaps  of  stones  and  pits,  and  though  so  near  the  habita- 
tions of  men,  is  the  most  desolate  place  you  can  conceive. 
The  ruins  of  temples  stand  in  and  around  it,  shattered 
columns  and  ranges  of  others  complete,  supporting 
cornices  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  vast  vaults  of 
shattered  domes  distinct  with  regular  compartments, 
once  filled  with  sculptures  of  ivory  or  brass.  The 
temples  of  Jupiter,  and  Concord,  and  Peace,  and  the 
Sun,  and  the  Moon,  and  Vesta,  are  all  within  a  short 
distance  of  this  spot.  Behold  the  wrecks  of  what  a 
great  nation  once  dedicated  to  the  abstractions  of  the 
mind !  Rome  is  a  city,  as  it  were,  of  the  dead,  or  rather 
of  those  who  cannot  die,  and  who  survive  the  puny 
generations  which  inhabit  and  pass  over  the  spot  which 
they  have  made  sacred  to  eternity.  In  Rome,  at  least 
143 


The  English  Cemetery 

in  the  first  enthusiasm  of  your  recognition  of  ancient 
time,  you  see  nothing  of  the  Italians.  The  nature  of 
the  city  assists  the  delusion,  for  its  vast  and  antique 
walls  describe  a  circumference  of  sixteen  miles,  and  thus 
the  population  is  thinly  scattered  over  this  space,  nearly 
as  great  as  London.  Wide  wild  fields  are  enclosed 
within  it,  and  there  are  lanes  and  copses  winding  among 
the  ruins,  and  a  great  green  hill,  lonely  and  bare,  which 
overhangs  the  Tiber.  The  gardens  of  the  modern 
palaces  are  like  wild  woods  of  cedar  and  cypress  and 
pine,  and  the  neglected  walks  are  overgrown  with  weeds. 
The  English  burying  place  is  a  green  slope  near  the 
walls,  under  the  pyramidal  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  is,  I 
think,  the  most  beautiful  and  solemn  cemetery  I  ever 
beheld.  To  see  the  sun  shining  on  its  bright  grass, 
fresh,  when  we  first  visited  it,  with  the  autumnal  dews, 
and  hear  the  whispering  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves 
of  the  trees  which  have  overgrown  the  tomb  of  Cestius, 
and  the  soil  which  is  stirring  in  the  sun-warm  earth,  and 
to  mark  the  tombs,  mostly  of  women  and  young  people 
who  were  buried  there,  one  might,  if  one  were  to  die, 
desire  the  sleep  they  seem  to  sleep.  Such  is  the  human 
mind,  and  so  it  peoples  with  its  wishes  vacancy  and 
oblivion. 

Thomas  Gray  extols  Kent         *c>     *c^        "Qy        -<^y 

(To  the  Rev.  Norton  Nicholls) 

PEMBROKE  HALL,  August  26,  1766 

DEAR  SIR,  —  It  is  long  since  that  I  heard  you  were 
gone   in   haste  into  Yorkshire  on  account  of  your 
mother's   illness ;    and   the  same  letter  informed  me  that 
she  was  recovered ;  otherwise  I  had  then  wrote   to   you, 
144 


"White  Transient  Sails" 

only  to  beg  you  would  take  care  of  her,  and  to  inform 
you  that  I  had  discovered  a  thing  very  little  known,  which 
is,  that  in  one's  whole  life,  one  never  can  have  any  more 
than  a  single  mother.  You  may  think  this  is  obvious, 
and  (what  you  call)  a  trite  observation.  You  are  a  green 
gosling!  I  was  at  the  same  age  (very  near)  as  wise  as 
you,  and  yet  I  never  discovered  this  (with  full  evidence 
and  conviction,  I  mean),  till  it  was  too  late.  It  is. thirteen 
years  ago,  and  seems  but  yesterday ;  and  every  day  I 
live,  it  sinks  deeper  into  my  heart.  Many  a  corollary 
could  I  draw  from  this  axiom  for  your  use  (not  for  my 
own),  but  I  will  leave  you  the  merit  of  doing  it  yourself. 
Pray  tell  me  how  your  own  health  is.  I  conclude  it 
perfect,  as  I  hear  you  offered  yourself  for  a  guide  to 
Mr.JPalgrave  into  the  Sierra-Morena  of  Yorkshire.  For 
me,  I  passed  the  end  of  May  and  all  June  in  Kent,  not 
disagreeably ;  the  country  is  all  a  garden,  gay,  rich,  and 
fruitful,  and  (from  the  rainy  season)  had  preserved,  till  I 
left  it,  all  that  emerald  verdure,  which  commonly  one  only 
sees  for  the  first  fortnight  of  the  spring.  In  the  west 
part  of  it,  from  every  eminence,  the  eye  catches  some 
long,  winding  reach  of  the  Thames  or  Medway,  with  all 
their  navigation ;  in  the  east,  the  sea  breaks  in  upon  you, 
and  mixes  its  white  transient  sails  and  glittering  blue  ex- 
panse with  the  deeper  and  brighter  greens  of  the  woods 
and  corn.  This  last  sentence  is  so  fine,  I  am  quite 
ashamed ;  but,  no  matter  !  you  must  translate  it  into 
prose.  Palgrave,  if  he  heard  it,  would  cover  his  face  with 
his  pudding  sleeve.  I  went  to  Margate  for  a  day;  one 
would  think  it  was  Bartholomew  Fair  that  had  flown 
down  from  Smithfield  to  Kent  in  the  London  Machine, 
like  my  Lady  Stuffdamask  (to  be  sure  you  have  read 
the  New  Bath  Guide,  the  most  fashionable  of  books)  ;  so 
then  I  did  not  go  to  Kingsgate,  because  it  belonged  to 
L  145 


An  Inquiring  P. S. 

my  Lord  Holland,  but  to  Ramsgate  I  did;  and  so  to 
Sandwich,  and  Deal,  and  Dover,  and  Folkestone,  and 
Hythe,  all  along  the  coast,  very  delightful.  I  do  not  tell 
you  of  the  great  and  small  beasts,  and  creeping  things 
innumerable,  that  I  met  with,  because  you  do  not  suspect 
that  this  world  is  inhabited  by  anything  but  men  and 
women  and  clergy,  and  such  two-legged  cattle.  Now  I  am 
here  again,  very  disconsolate,  and  all  alone,  even  Mr. 
Brown  is  gone ;  and  the  cares  of  this  world  are  coming 
thick  upon  me ;  I  do  not  mean  children.  You,  I  hope, 
are  better  off,  riding  and  walking  in  the  woods  of  Studley 
with  Mr.  Aislaby,  singing  duets  with  my  cousin  Fanny, 
improving  with  Mr.  Weddell,  conversing  with  Mr.  Harry 
Duncomb.  I  must  not  wish  for  you  here ;  besides,  I  am 
going  to  town  at  Michaelmas,  by  no  means  for  amusement. 
Do  you  remember  how  we  are  to  go  into  Wales  next  year? 
Well !  —  Adieu,  I  am  sincerely  yours,  T.  G. 

P.S.  —  Pray  how  does  poor  Temple  find  himself  in  his 
new  situation  ?  Is  Lord  Lisburne  as  good  as  his  letters 
were?  What  is  come  of  the  father  and  brother  ?  Have 
you  seen  Mason  ? 


The  Lambs  at  Cambridge        xc>       ^^>       ^>       ^o> 

(To  Sarah  Hutchinson) 

I 

Dated  at  end:  August  20,  1815 

MY  DEAR   FRIEND,  — It  is  less  fatigue  to  me  to 
write  upon  lines,  and  I  want  to  fill  up  as  much  of 
my  paper  as  I  can,  in  gratitude  for  the  pleasure  your  very 
kind  letter  has  given  me.     I  began  to  think  I  should  not 
146 


News  of  S.  T.  C. 

hear  from  you;  knowing  you  were  not  fond  of  letter- 
writing,  I  quite  forgave  you,  but  I  was  very  sorry.  Do  not 
make  a  point  of  conscience  of  it,  but  if  ever  you  feel  an  in- 
clination, you  cannot  think  how  much  a  few  lines  would 
delight  me.  I  am  happy  to  hear  so  good  an  account  of 
your  sister  and  child,  and  sincerely  wish  her  a  perfect 
recovery.  I  am  glad  you  did  not  arrive  sooner,  you  es- 
caped much  anxiety.  I  have  just  received  a  very  cheerful 
letter  from  Mrs.  Morgan  — the  following  I  have  picked  out 
as  I  think  it  will  interest  you.  "  Hartley  Coleridge  has  been 
with  us  for  two  months.  Morgan  invited  him  to  pass  the 
long  vacation  here  in  the  hope  that  his  father  would  be  of 
great  service  to  him  in  his  studies :  he  seems  to  be  ex- 
tremely amiable.  I  believe  he  is  to  spend  the  next  vaca- 
tion at  Lady  Beaumont's.  Your  old  friend  Coleridge  is 
very  hard  at  work  at  the  preface  to  a  new  Edition  which 
he  is  just  going  to  publish  in  the  same  form  as  Mr.  Words- 
worth's —  at  first  the  preface  was  not  to  exceed  five  or  six 
pages,  it  has  however  grown  into  a  work  of  great  impor- 
tance. I  believe  Morgan  has  already  written  nearly  two 
hundred  pages.  The  title  of  it  is  Autobiographia  Litera- 
ria :  to  which  are  added  Sybilline  Leaves,  a  collection 
of  Poems  by  the  same  author.  Calne  has  lately  been 
much  enlivened  by  an  excellent  company  of  players  — 
last  week  they  performed  the  '  Remorse '  to  a  very 
crowded  and  brilliant  audience;  two  of  the  characters 
were  admirably  well  supported ;  at  the  request  of  the 
actors  Morgan  was  behind  the  scenes  all  the  time,  and 
assisted  in  the  music,  etc." 

Thanks  to  your  kind  interference,  we  have  had  a  very 
nice  letter  from  Mr.  Wordsworth.  Of  them  and  of  you  we 
think  and  talk  quite  with  a  painful  regret  that  we  did  not 
see  more  of  you,  and  that  it  may  be  so  long  before  we  meet 
again. 


Mary  Lamb  Duplicates 

I  am  going  to  do  a  queer  thing  —  I  have  wearied  myself 
with  writing  a  long  letter  to  Mrs.  Morgan,  a  part  of 
which  is  an  incoherent  rambling  account  of  a  jaunt  we 
have  just  been  taking.  I  want,  to  tell  you  all  about  it, 
for  we  so  seldom  do  such  things  that  it  runs  strangely 
in  my  head,  and  I  feel  too  tired  to  give  you  other 
than  the  mere  copy  of  the  nonsense  I  have  just  been 
writing. 

"Last  Saturday  was  the  grand  feast  day  of  the  India 
House  Clerks.  I  think  you  must  have  heard  Charles 
talk  of  his  yearly  turtle  feast.  He  has  been  lately  much 
wearied  with  work,  and,  glad  to  get  rid  of  all  connected 
with  it,  he  used  Saturday,  the  feast  day  being  a  holiday, 
borrowed  the  Monday  following,  and  we  set  off  on  the 
outset  of  the  Cambridge  Coach  from  Fetter  Lane  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  were  driven  into  Cambridge  in  great  triumph 
by  Hell  Fire  Dick  five  minutes  before  .three.  Richard  is 
in  high  reputation,  he  is  private  tutor  to  the  Whip  Club. 
Journeys  used  to  be  tedious  torments  to  me,  but,  seated 
out  in  the  open  air,  I  enjoyed  every  mile  of  the  way  —  the 
first  twenty  miles  was  particularly  pleasing  to  me,  having 
been  accustomed  to  go  so  far  on  that  road  in  the  Ware 
Stage  Coach  to  visit  my  Grandmother  in  the  days  of 
other  times. 

"In  my  life  I  never  spent  so  many  pleasant  hours 
together  as  1  did  at  Cambridge.  We  were  walking  the 
whole  time  —  out  of  one  College  into  another.  If  you 
ask  me  which  I  like  best,  I  must  make  the  children's 
traditionary  unoffending  reply  to  all  curious  enquirers  — 
'Both:  I  liked  them  all  best.  The  little  gloomy  ones, 
because  they  were  little  gloomy  ones.  I  felt  as  if  I 
could  live  and  die  in  them  and  never  wish  to  speak 
again.  And  the  fine  grand  Trinity  College,  Oh  how 
fine  it  was  !  And  King's  College  Chapel,  what  a  place  ! 
148 


The  Friendly   Undergrad. 

I  heard  the  Cathedral  service  there,  and  having  been 
no  great  church  goer  of  late  years,  that  and  the  painted 
windows  and  the  general  effect  of  the  whole  thing  affected 
me  wonderfully. 

"I  certainly  like  St.  John's  College  best.  I  had  seen 
least  of  it,  having  only  been  over  it  once,  so,  on  the  morn- 
ing we  returned,  I  got  up  at  six  o^clock  and  wandered  into 
it  by  myself — by  myself  indeed,  for  there  was  nothing 
alive  to  be  seen  but  one  cat,  who  followed  me  about 
like  a  dog.  Then  I  went  over  Trinity,  but  nothing 
hailed  me  there,  not  even  a  cat. 

"  On  the  Sunday  we  met  with  a  pleasant  thing.  We  had 
been  congratulating  each  other  that  we  had  come  alone 
to  enjoy,  as  the  miser  his  feast,  all  our  sights  greedily 
to .  ourselves,  but  having  seen  all  we  began  to  grow  flat 
and  wish  for  this  and  tother  body  with  us,  when  we 
were  accosted  by  a  young  gownsman  whose  face  we 
knew,  but  where  or  how  we  had  seen  him  we  could 
not  tell,  and  were  obliged  to  ask  his  name.  He  proved 
to  be  a  young  man  we  had  seen  twice  at  Alsager's. 
He  turned  out  a  very  pleasant  fellow  —  showed  us  the 
insides  of  places  —  we  took  him  to  our  Inn  to  dinner, 
and  drank  tea  with  him  in  such  a  delicious  college 
room,  and  then  again  he  supped  with  us.  We  made 
our  meals  as  short  as  possible,  to  lose  no  time,  and 
walked  our  young  conductor  almost  off  his  legs.  Even 
when  the  fried  eels  were  ready  for  supper  and  coming 
up,  having  a  message  from  a  man  who  we  had  bribed 
for  the  purpose,  that  then  we  might  see  Oliver  Cromwell, 
who  was  not  at  home  when  we  called  to  see  him,  we 
sallied  out  again  and  made  him  a  visit  by  candlelight 
—  and  so  ended  our  sights.  When  we  were  setting  out 
in  the  morning  our  new  friend  came  to  bid  us  good-bye, 
and  rode  with  us  as  far  as  Trompington.  I  never  saw 
149 


Lamb  Commencing  Gentleman 

a  creature  so  happy  as  he  was  the  whole  time  he  was 
with  us,  he  said  we  had  put  him  in  such  good  spirits 
that  [he]  should  certainly  pass  an  examination  well 
that  he  is  to  go  through  in  six  weeks  in  order  to 
qualify  himself  to  obtain  a  fellowship. 

"  Returning  home  down  old  Fetter  Lane,  I  could  hardly 
keep  from  crying  to  think  it  was  all  over.  With  what 
pleasure  [Charles]  shewed  me  Jesus  College  where 
Coleridge  was  —  the  barbels  shop]  where  Manning  was 
—  the  house  where  Lloyd  lived  —  Franklin's  rooms,  a 
young  schoolfellow  with  whom  Charles  was  the  first 
time  he  went  to  Cambridge :  I  peeped  in  at  his  window, 
the  room  looked  quite  deserted  —  old  chairs  standing 
about  in  disorder  that  seemed  to  have  stood  there  ever 
since  they  had  sate  in  them.  I  write  sad  nonsense 
about  these  things,  but  I  wish  you  had  heard  Charles 
talk  his  nonsense  over  and  over  again  about  his  *  visit 
to  Franklin,  and  how  he  then  first  felt  himself  com- 
mencing gentleman  and  had  eggs  for  his  breakfast." 
Charles  Lamb  commencing  gentleman  ! 

A  lady  who  is  sitting  by  me,  seeing  what  I  am 
doing,  says  I  remind  her  of  her  husband,  who  acknow- 
ledged that  the  first  love  letter  he  wrote  to  her  was 
a  copy  of  one  he  had  made  use  of  on  a  former 
occasion. 

This  is  no  letter,  but  if  you  give  me  any  encourage- 
ment to  write  again  you  shall  have  one  entirely  to 
yourself:  a  little  encouragement  will  do,  a  few  lines 
to  say  you  are  well  and  remember  us.  I  will  keep  this 
to-morrow,  maybe  Charles  will  put  a  few  lines  to  it  — 
I  always  send  off  a  humdrum  letter  of  mine  with  great 
satisfaction  if  I  can  get  him  to  freshen  it  up  a  little  at 
the  end.  Let  me  beg  my  love  to  your  sister  Johanna 
with  many  thanks.  I  have  much  pleasure  in  looking 
150 


"Bless  the  Little  Churches" 

forward  to  her  nice   bacon,  the  maker  of  which  I  long 
have  had  a  great  desire  to  see. 

God   bless  you,  my  dear  Miss   Hutchinson,  I   remain 
ever,  your  affectionate  friend,  M.  LAMB 

II 

DEAR  MISS  HUTCHINSON,  — I  subscribe  most 
willingly  to  all  my  sister  says  of  her  Enjoyment  at 
Cambridge.  She  was  in  silent  raptures  all  the  while 
there,  and  came  home  riding  thro1  the  air  (her  ist  long 
outside  journey)  triumphing  as  if  she  had  been  gradu- 
ated. I  remember  one  foolish-pretty  expression  she 
made  use  of,  "  Bless  the  little  churches  how  pretty  they 
are,"  as  those  symbols  of  civilised  life  opened  upon  her 
view,  one  after  the  other,  on  this  side  of  Cambridge.  You 
cannot  proceed  a  mile  without  starting  a  steeple,  with 
its  little  patch  of  villagery  round  it,  enverduring  the 
waste.  I  don't  know  how  you  will  pardon  part  of  her 
letter  being  a  transcript,  but  writing  to  another  Lady 
first  (probably  as  the  easiest  task)  it  was  unnatural  not 
to  give  you  an  acco*  of  what  had  so  freshly  delighted 
her,  and  would  have  been  a  piece  of  transcendent 
rhetorick  (above  her  modesty)  to  have  given  two  different 
accounts  of  a  simple  and  univocal  pleasure.  Bless  me 
how  learned  I  write  !  but  I  always  forget  myself  when 
I  write  to  Ladies.  One  cannot  tame  one's  erudition 
down  to  their  merely  English  apprehensions.  But  this 
and  all  other  faults  you  will  excuse  from  yours  truly, 

C.  LAMB 


A  Poet  in  the  Alps 

The  Rev.  T.  E.  Brown  describes  the  Jungfrau          ^y 
(To  Mrs.  Williamson) 

October  18,  1874 

OUR  three  weeks  in  Switzerland  were  consummate. 
No  rain,  no  wind,  a  perpetual  bath  of  sunshine, 
hot  of  course,  but  at  those  heights  deliciously  bracing 
and  stimulating;  sunshine  that  got  into  your  brain  and 
heart,  and  set  you  all  aglow  with  a  sweet  radiant  fire  I 
never  thought  possible  for  my  old  jaded  apparatus 
physicus.  We  went  by  Paris  to  Neufchatel ;  thence  to 
Berne,  Thun,  Interlaken,  Lauterbrunner,  Miirren.  Here 
we  stayed  a  week.  It  was  the  best  part  of  our  holiday ; 
a  week  never,  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Miirren  faces  the  Jungfrau.  This  glorious  creature  is 
your  one  object  of  interest  from  morning  to  night.  It 
seems  so  near  that  you  could  fancy  a  stone  might  be 
thrown  across  to  it.  Between  you  and  it  is  a  broad 
valley :  but  so  deep,  and  with  sides  so  precipitous,  that 
it  is  entirely  out  of  sight.  So  the  Jungfrau  vis-d-vis-zs 
you  frankly  through  the  bright  sweet  intervening  air. 
And  then  she  has  such  moods ;  such  unutterable  smiles, 
such  inscrutable  sulks,  such  growls  of  rage  suppressed, 
such  thunder  of  avalanches,  such  crowns  of  stars.  One 
evening  our  sunset  was  the  real  rose  pink  you  have 
heard  of  so  much.  It  fades,  you  know,  into  a  deathlike 
chalk-white.  That  is  the  most  awful  thing.  A  sort  of 
spasm  seems  to  come  over  her  face,  and  in  an  instant 
she  is  a  corpse,  rigid,  and  oh,  so  cold  !  Well,  so  she 
died,  and  you  felt  as  if  a  great  soul  had  ebbed  away  into 
the  Heaven  of  Heavens :  and  thankful,  but  very  sad,  I 
went  up  to  my  room.  I  was  reading  by  candle-light,  for 
it  gets  dark  immediately  after  sunset,  when  A.  shrieked 
152 


"The  Sweet  Bright  Flora" 

to  me  to  come  to  the  window.  What  a  Resurrection^ 
so  gentle,  so  tender  —  like  that  sonnet  of  Milton's  about 
his  dead  wife  returning  in  vision !  The  moon  had  risen  ; 
and  there  was  the  Jungfrau  —  oh  chaste,  oh  blessed  saint 
in  glory  everlasting !  Then  all  the  elemental  spirits  that 
haunt  crevasses,  and  hover  around  peaks,  all  the  patient 
powers  that  bear  up  the  rock  buttresses,  and  labour  to 
sustain  great  slopes,  all  streams,  and  drifts,  and  flowers, 
and  vapours,  made  a  symphony,  a  time  most  solemn  and 
rapturous.  It  was  there,  unheard  perhaps,  unheard,  I 
will  not  deny  it;  but  there,  nevertheless.  A  young 
Swiss  felt  it,  and  with  exquisite  delicacy  feeling  his  way, 
as  it  were,  to  some  expression,  however  inadequate,  he 
played  a  sonata  of  Schumann,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
songs,  such  as  the  Friihlingsnacht.  Forgive  my  rhap- 
sody :  but,  you  know,  you  don't  get  those  things  twice. 
And  let  me  say  just  one  word  of  what  followed.  The 
abyss  below  was  a  pot  of  boiling  blackness,  and  on  to 
this,  and  down  into  this,  and  all  over  this,  the  moonlight 
fell  as  meal  falls  on  to  porridge  from  nimbly  sifting 
fingers.  Moon-meal!  that  was  it. 

I  climbed  the  Schilthorn  one  day  before  breakfast ;  it 
is  about  10,000  feet;  but,  as  a  rule,  I  didn't  like  to  leave 
A.  alone ;  so  that  my  climbing  was  of  the  most  limited, 
and  I  scarcely  got  on  to  ice  at  all.  At  Murren,  perhaps 
more  than  anywhere  else,  we  had  the  most  astounding 
richness  of  pasture.  But  Switzerland,  generally,  is  in 
this  respect  unique.  So  lush  is  the  vegetation,  that  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  get  up  into  bare  savagery  of 
desolation. 

The  sweet  bright  Flora  baffles  you ;  she  springs  like 
a  bacchante  from  height  to  height.  You  can't  get  above 
her.  I  don't  mean  fat,  fulsome  richness ;  but  the  pas- 
tures are  so  velvety,  so  parsemed  with  all  imaginable 
153 


The  Brave  Optimist 

colours.  The  grass  seems  to  be  all  flowers,  and  the 
flowers  to  be  all  grass :  the  closest-grained  math  I  ever 
beheld ;  and  through  it  everywhere,  led  by  careful  hands, 
go  singing,  hissing  rather,  like  sharp  silver  scythes,  the 
little  blessed  streams.  I  was  not  prepared  for  this. 

We  got  to  Chamounix  and  went  up  the  Fle'gere,  and 
A.  was  like  a  roe  upon  the  mountains ;  and  every  care 
and  every  strain  of  anxiety  and  bother  was  wiped  from 
off  our  souls,  and  we  were  both,  as  we  once  were,  young 
and  full  of  hope  and  love.  Age  and  the  love  shall  remain, 
•God  wot,  but  the  other  things  —  all  right!  all  right! 


154 


VII 

THE   LITTLE   FRIENDS 

William  Cowper  loses  Puss       x^>      o      ^>      <^y 
(To  the  Rev.  John  Newton) 

Attgust  21,  1780 

HPHE  following  occurrence  ought  not  to  be  passed  over 
A      in  silence,  in  a  place  where  so  few  notable  ones 
are  to  be  met  with. 

Last  Wednesday  night,  while  we  were  at  supper, 
between  the  hours  of  eight  and  nine,  I  heard  an  unusual 
noise  in  the  back  parlour,  as  if  one  of  the  hares  was 
entangled,  and  endeavouring  to  disengage  herself.  I 
was  just  going  to  rise  from  table,  when  it  ceased.  In 
about  five  minutes,  a  voice  on  the  outside  of  the  parlour 
door  inquired  if  one  of  my  hares  had  got  away.  I 
immediately  rushed  into  the  next  room,  and  found  that 
my  poor  favourite  Puss  had  made  her  escape. 

She  had  gnawed  in  sunder  the  strings  of  a  lattice  work, 
with  which  I  thought  I  had  sufficiently  secured  the 
window,  and  which  I  preferred  to  any  other  sort  of  blind, 
because  it  admitted  plenty  of  air. 

From  thence  I  hastened  to  the  kitchen,  where  I  saw 
155 


A  Four-Shilling  Frolic 

the  redoubtable  Thomas  Freeman,  who  told  me  that, 
having  seen  her,  just  after  she  had  dropped  into  the 
street,  he  attempted  to  cover  her  with  his  hat,  but  she 
screamed  out,  and  leaped  directly  over  his  head.  I  then 
desired  him  to  pursue  as  fast  as  possible,  and,  added 
Richard  Coleman  to  the  chase,  as  being  nimbler,  and 
carrying  less  weight  than  Thomas ;  not  expecting  to  see 
her  again,  but  desirous  to  learn,  if  possible,  what  became 
of  her.  In  something  less  than  an  hour,  Richard  returned, 
almost  breathless,  with  the  following  account.  That  soon 
after  he  began  to  run,  he  left  Tom  behind  him,  and  came 
in  sight  of  a  most  numerous  hunt  of  men,  women,  children, 
and  dogs ;  that  he  did  his  best  to  keep  back  the  dogs, 
and  presently  outstripped  the  crowd,  so  that  the  race 
was  at  last  disputed  between  himself  and  Puss  ;  —  she 
ran  right  through  the  town,  and  down  the  lane  that  leads 
to  Dropshort ;  a  little  before  she  came  to  the  house,  he 
got  the  start  and  turned  her;  she  pushed  for  the  town 
again,  and  soon  after  she  entered  it,  sought  shelter  in 
Mr.  WagstafTs  tanyard,  adjoining  to  old  Mr.  Drake's. 

Sturges's  harvest  men  were  at  supper,  and  saw  her 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way. 

There  she  encountered  the  tanpits  full  of  water;  and 
while  she  was  struggling  out  of  one  pit,  and  plunging 
into  another,  and  almost  drowned,  one  of  the  men  drew 
her  out  by  the  ears,  and  secured  her.  She  was  then  well 
washed  in  a  bucket  to  get  the  lime  out  of  her  coat,  and 
brought  home  in  a  sack  at  ten  o'clock. 

This  frolic  cost  us  four  shillings,  but  you  may  believe 
we  did  not  grudge  a  farthing  of  it. 

The  poor  creature  received  only  a  little  hurt  in  one  of 
her  claws,  and  in  one  of  her  ears,  and  is  now  almost  as 
well  as  ever. 

I  do  not  call  this  an  answer  to  your  letter,  but  such  as 


Tortoise  Loquitur 

it  is  I  send  it,  presuming  upon  that  interest  which  I  know 
you  take  in  my  minutest  concerns,  which  I  cannot  express 
better  than  in  the  words  of  Terence  a  little  varied  —  Nihil 
mei  a  te  alienum  putas.  —  Yours,  my  dear  friend, 

W.  C. 

Gilbert  White  becomes  Timothy's  autobiographer  *v> 
(To  Hester  Chapone) 

SELBORNE,  August  31,  1784 

MOST  RESPECTABLE  LADY,  — Your  letter  gave 
me  great  satisfaction,  being  the  first  that  I  ever  was 
honoured  with.  It  is  my  wish  to  answer  you  in  my  own 
way  ;  but  I  never  could  make  a  verse  in  my  life,  so  you 
must  be  contented  with  plain  prose.  Having  seen  but 
little  of  this  great  world,  conversed  but  little,  and  read  less, 
I  feel  myself  much  at  a  loss  how  to  entertain  so  intelli- 
gent a  correspondent.  Unless  you  will  let  me  write  about 
myself,  my  answer  will  be  very  short  indeed. 

Know,  then,  that  I  am  an  American,  and  was  born  in 
the  year  1734,  in  the  province  of  Virginia,  in  the  midst 
of  a  Savanna  that  lay  between  a  large  tobacco  plantation 
and  a  creek  of  the  sea.  Here  I  spent  my  youthful  days 
among  my  relatives  with  great  satisfaction,  and  saw  around 
me  many  venerable  kinsmen,  who  had  attained  great  ages, 
without  any  interruptions  from  distempers. 

Longevity  is  so  general  among  our  species  that  a  funeral 
is  quite  a  strange  occurrence.  I  can  just  remember  the 
death  of  my  great-great-grandfather,  who  departed  this  life 
in  the  i6oth  year  of  his  age. 

Happy  should  I  have  been  in  the  enjoyment  of  my 
native  climate,  and  the  society  of  my  friends,  had  not  a 
sea-boy,  who  was  wandering  about  to  see  what  he  could 
157 


The  Cradle  of  the  Deep 

pick  up,  surprised  me  as  I  was  sunning  myself  under  a 
bush  ;  and  whipping  me  into  his  wallet,  carried  me  aboard 
his  ship.  The  circumstances  of  our  voyage  are  not  worth 
a  recital ;  I  only  remember  that  the  rippling  of  the  water 
against  the  sides  of  our  vessel  as  we  sailed  along  was  a 
very  lulling  and  composing  sound,  which  served  to  soothe 
my  slumbers  as  I  lay  in  the  hold.  We  had  a  short  voyage, 
and  came  to  anchor  on  the  coast  of  England  in  the  harbour 
of  Chichester. 

In  that  city  my  kidnapper  sold  me  for  half-a-crown 
to  a  country  gentleman,  who  came  up  to  attend  an  elec- 
tion. I  was  immediately  packed  in  a  hand-basket,  and 
carried,  slung  by  the  servant's  side,  to  their  place  of  abode. 
As  they  rode  very  hard  for  forty  miles,  and  I  had  never 
been  on  horseback  before,  I  found  myself  somewhat 
giddy  from  my  airy  jaunt.  My  purchaser,  who  was  a 
great  humorist,  after  showing  me  to  some  of  his  neigh- 
bours, and  giving  me  the  name  of  Timothy,  took  little 
further  notice  of  me ;  so  I  fell  under  the  care  of  his  lady, 
a  benevolent  woman,  whose  humane  attention  extended 
to  the  meanest  of  her  retainers.  With  this  gentlewoman 
I  remained  almost  forty  years,  living  in  a  little  walled-in 
court  in  the  front  of  her  house,  and  enjoying  much 
quiet,  and  as  much  satisfaction  as  I  could  expect  without 
society. 

At  last  this  good  old  lady  died,  in  a  very  advanced 
old  age,  such  as  a  tortoise  would  call  a  good  old  age ; 
and  I  then  became  the  property  of  her  nephew.  This 
man,  my  present  master,  dug  me  out  of  my  winter 
retreat,  and  packing  me  in  a  deal  box,  jumbled  me 
eighty  miles  in  post-chaises  to  my  present  place  of  abode. 
I  was  sore  shaken  by  this  expedition,  which  was  the 
worst  journey  I  ever  experienced.  In  my  present  situa- 
tion I  enjoy  many  advantages  —  such  as  the  range  of  an 


A  Whimsical  Naturalist 

extensive  garden,  affording  a  variety  of  sun  and  shade, 
and  abounding  in  lettuces,  poppies,  kidney-beans,  and 
many  other  salubrious  and  delectable  herbs  and  plants, 
and  especially  with  a  great  choice  of  delicate  goose- 
berries !  But  still  at  times  I  miss  my  good  old  mistress, 
whose  grave  and  regular  deportment  suited  best  with 
my  disposition.  For  you  must  know  that  my  master 
is  what  they  call  a  naturalist,  and  much  visited  by  people 
of  that  turn,  who  often  find  him  on  whimsical  experiments, 
such  as  feeling  my  pulse,  putting  me  in  a  tub  of  water 
to  try  if  I  can  swim,  etc.,  and  twice  in  the  year  I  am 
carried  to  the  grocer's  to  be  weighed,  that  it  may  be  seen 
how  much  I  am  wasted  during  the  months  of  my  absti- 
nence, and  how  much  I  gain  by  feasting  in  the  sum- 
mer. Upon  these  occasions  I  am  placed  in  the  scale  on 
my  back,  where  I  sprawl  about  to  the  great  diversion  of 
the  shopkeeper's  children.  These  matters  displease  me ; 
but  there  is  another  that  much  hurts  my  pride  —  I  mean 
that  contempt  shown  for  my  understanding  which  these 
Lords  of  the  Creation  are  very  apt  to  discover,  thinking 
that  nobody  knows  anything  but  themselves.  J  heard 
my  master  say  that  he  expected  that  I  should  some  day 
tumble  down  the  ha-ha;  whereas  I  would  have  him  to 
know  that  I  can  discern  a  precipice  from  plain  ground 
as  well  as  himself.  Sometimes  my  master  repeats  with 
much  seeming  triumph  the  following  lines,  which  occasion 
a  loud  laugh  — 

"  Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amidst  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre.* 

For  my  part  I  see  no  wit  in  the  application,  nor  know 

whence    these    verses    are    quoted,   perhaps    from   some 

prophet  of  his  own,  who,  if  he  penned  them  for  the  sake 

159 


Hardshell's  Wanderjahr 

of  ridiculing  tortoises,  bestowed  his  pains,  I  think,  to  poor 
purposes.  These  are  some  of  my  grievances  ;  but  they  sit 
very  light  on  me  in  comparison  of  what  remains  behind. 

Know,  then,  tender-hearted  lady,  that  my  greatest 
misfortune,  and  what  I  have  never  divulged  to  anyone 
before,  is  the  want  of  society  of  my  own  kind. 

This  reflection  is  always  uppermost  in  my  own  mind, 
but  comes  upon  me  with  irresistible  force  every  spring. 
It  was  in  the  month  of  May  last,  that  I  resolved  to  elope 
from  my  place  of  confinement,  for  my  fancy  had  repre- 
sented to  me  that  probably  many  agreeable  tortoises  of 
both  sexes  might  inhabit  the  heights  of  Baker's  Hill,  or 
the  extensive  plains  of  the  neighbouring  meadows,  both 
of  which  I  could  discern  from  the  terrass.  One  sunny 
morning,  therefore,  I  watched  my  opportunity,  found  the 
wicket  open,  eluded  the  vigilance  of  Thomas  Hoar,  and 
escaped  into  the  St.  foin,  which  began  to  be  in  bloom, 
and  thence  into  the  beans.  I  was  missing  eight  days, 
wandering  in  this  wilderness  of  sweets,  and  exploring 
the  meadows  at  times.  But  my  pains  were  all  to  no 
purpose;  I  could  find  no  society  such  as  I  wished  and 
sought  for.  I  began  to  grow  hungry,  and  to  wish  myself 
at  home.  I  therefore  came  forth  into  sight,  and  surren- 
dered myself  up  to  Thomas,  who  had  been  inconsolable 
in  my  absence.  Thus,  madam,  have  I  given  you  a  faithful 
account  of  my  satisfactions  and  sorrows,  the  latter  of  which 
are  uppermost.  You  are  a  lady,  I  understand,  of  much  sen- 
sibility. Let  me,  therefore,  make  my  case  your  own  in  the 
following  manner,  and  then  you  will  judge  of  my  feelings. 

Suppose  you  were  to  be  kidnapped  away  to-morrow, 
in  the  bloom  of  your  life,  to  the  land  of  Tortoises,  and 
were  never  to  see  again  for  fifty  years  a  human  face !  !  ! 
Think  on  this,  dear  lady,  and  pity  your  sorrowful  Reptile, 

TIMOTHY 
160 


Boz  Bereaved 

Charles  Dickens  tells  Captain  Basil  Hall  of  the  death 
of  his  raven        -^       ^>       -^       ^>       ^> 

March  1 6, 1841 

MY  raven's  dead.  He  had  been  ailing  for  a  few 
days,  but  not  seriously,  as  we  thought,  and  was 
apparently  recovering,  when  symptoms  of  relapse  occa- 
sioned me  to  send  for  an  eminent  medical  gentleman, 
one  Herring  (a  bird  fancier  in  the  New  Road),  who 
promptly  attended  and  administered  a  powerful  dose  of 
castor  oil.  This  was  on  Tuesday  last.  On  Wednesday 
morning  he  had  another  dose  of  castor  oil  and  a  teacup- 
ful  of  warm  gruel,  which  he  took  with  great  relish,  and 
under  the  influence  of  which  he  so  far  recovered  his  spirits 
as  to  be  able  to  bite  the  groom  severely.  At  12  o'clock  at 
noon  he  took  several  turns  up  and  down  the  stable  with 
a  grave,  sedate  air,  and  suddenly  reeled.  This  made 
him  thoughtful.  He  stopped  directly,  shook  his  head, 
moved  on  again,  stopped  once  more,  cried  in  a  tone  of 
remonstrance  and  considerable  surprise,  "  Halloa,  old 
girl ! "  and  immediately  died.  He  has  left  a  rather  large 
property  (in  cheese  and  halfpence)  buried,  for  security's 
sake,  in  various  parts  of  the  garden.  I  am  not  without 
suspicions  of  poison.  A  butcher  was  heard  to  threaten 
him  some  weeks  since,  and  he  stole  a  clasp  knife  belong- 
ing to  a  vindictive  carpenter,  which  was  never  found. 
For  these  reasons,  I  directed  a  post-mortem  examination 
preparatory  to  the  body  being  stuffed ;  the  result  of  it 
has  not  yet  reached  me.  The  medical  gentleman  broke 
out  the  fact  of  his  decease  to  me  with  great  delicacy, 
observing  that  "the  jolliest  queer  start  had  taken  place 
with  that  'ere  knowing  card  of  a  bird,  as  ever  he  see'd,"  — 
but  the  shock  was  naturally  very  great.  .With  reference 
to  the  jollity  of  the  start,  it  appears  that  a  raven  dying  at 
M  161 


Beautiful,  Clean,  and  Sensible 

two  hundred  and  fifty  or  thereabouts,  is  looked  upon  as 
an  infant.  This  one  would  hardly,  as  I  may  say,  have 
been  born  for  a  century  or  so  to  come,  being  only  two  or 
three  years  old. 

The  Swan  of  Lichfield  loses  Sappho    -^>      o     -^ 
(To  Mr.  Newton) 

January  16,  1791 

I  WRITE  to  you  thus  early  on  the  receipt  of  yours, 
beneath  the  impression  of  a  severe  shock  from  the 
sudden  death,  in  my  presence,  of  my  darling  little  dog, 
by  the  breaking,  as  it  is  supposed,  of  the  aneurism  in  her 
throat,  which  had  never  seemed  to  have  given  her  the 
least  annoyance  till  the  minute  in  which  it  destroyed  her. 
Her  life  had  been  a  three  years'  rapture,  so  cloudless  had 
been  her  health,  so  gay  was  her  spirit,  so  agile  her  light 
and  bounding  frame,  so  pleasurable  her  keen  sensibilities. 
How  I  miss  her,  constant  and  sweet  companion  as  she 
was,  it  is  not  in  every  heart  to  conceive,  or,  conceiving  it, 
to  pity.  Giovanni  laments  her  not  less  fondly;  and  her 
fate  left  no  eye  unwet  in  my  little  household.  Her  loss 
spread  the  gloom  of  silence  through  this  large  mansion, 
so  thinly  tenanted,  that  perpetually  rung  with  the  demon- 
strations either  of  her  joy  or  guardian  watchfulness.  Her 
incessant  affection  for  me,  her  gentleness  and  perfect 
obedience,  occur  hourly  to  my  remembrance,  and  "  thrill 
my  heart  with  melancholy  pain." 

My  ingenious,  learned,  and  benevolent  neighbour,  Mr. 
Green,  whose  poetic  talents  are  admirable,  sent  me  the 
ensuing  enchanting  stanzas,  the  day  after  I  lost  the 
beautiful,  the  clean,  the  sensible,  the  beloved  little 
creature  — 

162 


Frequent  Tear  and  Beamy  Eyes 

(To  Miss  Seward  on  the  death  of  her  favourite  lap-dog 
Sappho) 

Cease,  gentle  maid,  to  shed  the  frequent  tear, 
That  dims  the  lustre  of  thy  beamy  eyes; 

Grief,  and  her  tempting  luxuries  forbear, 
Nor  longer  heave  those  unavailing  sighs. 

Say,  shall  that  heart,  with  noblest  passions  warm, 
Where  friendship  and  her  train  delight  to  rest, 

That  mind,  where  sense  and  playful  fancy  charm, 
By  fond  extreme  of  pity  sink  oppress'd  ? 

What  though  thy  favourite,  with  her  parting  breath, 

Implor'd  thy  succour  in  a  piercing  yell, 
And  seem'd  to  court  thy  kind  regards  in  death, 

As  at  thy  feet,  in  mortal  trance,  she  fell: 

What  though,  when  fate's  resistless  mandate  came, 
Thy  friendly  hand  was  stretch'd  in  vain  to  save, 

Yet  can  that  hand  bestow  a  deathless  fame, 
And  plant  unfading  flowers  around  her  grave. 

Then  let  thy  strains  in  plaintive  accents  flow, 
So  shall  thy  much-loved  Sappho  still  survive; 

So  shall  her  beauties  shine  with  brighter  glow, 
And  in  thy  matchless  verse  for  ages  live. 

Thus,  if  perchance  the  splendid  amber  folds 

Some  tiny  insect  in  its  crystal  womb, 
While  its  rare  form  the  curious  eye  beholds, 

The  insect  shares  the  glories  of  its  tomb. 

Severe  has  been  the  breath  of  this  rugged  winter; — t 
hope  it  spreads  no  lasting  blight  in  your  domestic  com- 
forts. I  have  been  much  out  of  health  through  its  icy 
progress,  and  obliged  to  throw  myself  upon  medical 
assistance.  Within  this  month  my  disorder  has  given 
way  to  the  skill  of  my  physicians ;  but  Mr.  Saville,  the 
disinterested,  the  humane,  still  suffers  seizures  in  his 


Tests  for  Hydrophobia 

stomach,  of  an  uncommon,  and  surely  of  an  alarming  na- 
ture. Heaven  send  they  may  be  transient,  and,  in  its 
mercy,  restore  to  health  a  life  so  valuable.  Adieu  ! 


Charles  Lamb  and  his  dog       *^>-       ^y       -^S       <^x 

MRS.  LEISHMAN'S,  CHACE,  ENFIELD, 
September,  1827 

DEAR  PATMO RE,— Excuse  my  anxiety— but  how 
is  Dash?  (I  should  have  asked  if  Mrs.  Patmore 
kept  her  rules,  and  was  improving — but  Dash  came 
^uppermost.  The  order  of  our  thoughts  should  be  the 
order  of  our  writing.)  Goes  he  muzzled,  or  aperto  ore  ? 
Are  his  intellects  sound,  or  does  he  wander  a  little  in  his 
conversation?  You  cannot  be  too  careful  to  watch  the 
first  symptoms  of  incoherence.  The  first  illogical  snarl 
he  makes,  to  St.  Luke's  with  him!  All  the  dogs  here 
are  going  mad,  if  you  believe  the  overseers ;  but  I  protest 
they  seem  to  me  very  rational  and  collected.  But  nothing 
is  so  deceitful  as  mad  people  to  those  who  are  not  used 
to  them.  Try  him  with  hot  water.  If  he  won't  lick  it  up, 
it  is  a  sign  he  does  not  like  it.  Does  his  tail  wag 
horizontally  or  perpendicularly?  That  has  decided  the 
fate  of  many  dogs  in  Enfield.  Is  his  general  deportment 
cheerful  ?  I  mean  when  he  is  pleased  —  for  otherwise 
there  is  no  judging.  You  can't  be  too  careful.  Has  he 
bit  any  of  the  children  yet?  If  he  has,  have  them  shot, 
and  keep  him  for  curiosity,  to  see  if  it  was  the  hydro- 
phobia. They  say  all  our  army  in  India  had  it  at  one 
time  —  but  that  was  in  //ydfcr- Ally's  time.  Do  you  get 
paunch  for  him?  Take  care  the  sheep  was  sane.  You 
might  pull  out  his  teeth  (if  he  would  let  you),  and  then 
you  need  not  mind  if  he  were  as  mad  as  a  Bedlamite.  It 
164 


The  Profounder  Germans 

would  be  rather  fun  to  see  his  odd  ways.  It  might  amuse 
Mrs.  Patmore  and  the  children.  They'd  have  more  sense 
than  he  !  He'd  be  like  a  Fool  kept  in  the  family  to  keep 
the  household  in  good  humour  with  their  own  understand- 
ing. You  might  teach  him  the  mad  dance  set  to  the  mad 
howl.  Madge  Owl-et  would  be  nothing  to  him.  "My, 
how  he  capers ! "  \Jn  the  margin  is  written  :  One  of  the 
children  speaks  this.] 

[Three  lines  here  are  erasedJ]  What  I  scratch  out  is  a 
German  quotation  from  Lessing  on  the  bite  of  rabid 
animals;  but,  I  remember,  you  don't  read  German. 
But  Mrs.  Patmore  may,  so  I  wish  I  had  let  it  stand. 
The  meaning  in  English  is  —  "Avoid  to  approach  an 
animal  suspected  of  madness,  as  you  would  avoid  fire  or 
a  precipice :  —  "  which  I  think  is  a  sensible  observation. 
The  Germans  are  certainly  profounder  than  we. 

If  the  slightest  suspicion  arises  in  your  breast,  that  all  is 
not  right  with  him  (Dash),  muzzle  him,  and  lead  him  in 
a  string  (common  pack-thread  will  do ;  he  don't  care  for 
twist)  to  Hood's,  his  quondam  master,  and  he'll  take  him 
in  at  any  time.  You  may  mention  your  suspicion  or  not, 
as  you  like,  or  as  you  think  it  may. wound  or  not  Mr.  H.'s 
feelings.  Hood,  I  know,  will  wink  at  a  few  follies  in 
Dash,  in  consideration  of  his  former  sense.  Besides, 
Hood  is  deaf,  and  if  you  hinted  anything,  ten  to  one  he 
would  not  hear  you.  Besides,  you  will  have  discharged 
your  conscience,  and  laid  the  child  at  the  right  door,  as 
they  say. 

We  are  dawdling  our  time  away  very  idly  and  pleas- 
antly at  a  Mrs.  Leishman's,  Chace,  Enfield,  where,  if  you 
come  a-hunting,  we  can  give  you  cold  meat  and  a  tankard. 
Her  husband  is  a  tailor;  but  that,  you  know,  does  not 
make  her  one.  I  knew  a  jailor  (which  rhymes),  but  his 
wife  was  a  fine  lady. 


Linda  and  Mrs.  Bouncer 

Let    us    hear    from    you    respecting    Mrs.    Patmore'a 

regimen.     I  send  my  love  in to  Dash. 

C.  LAMB 


Charles  Dickens  describes  his  welcome  home          -^ 

GADS  HILL,  HICHAM,  BY  ROCHESTER,  KENT 
May  25,  1868 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  FIELDS,  —  As  you  ask  me  about 
the  dogs,  I  begin  with  them.  When  I  came  down 
first,  I  came  to  Gravesend,  five  miles  off.  The  two 
Newfoundland  dogs,  coming  to  meet  me  with  the  usual 
carriage  and  the  usual  driver,  and  beholding  me  coming 
in  my  usual  dress  out  at  the  usual  door,  it  struck  me  that 
their  recollection  of  my  having  been  absent  for  any  unusual 
time  was  at  once  cancelled.  They  behaved  (they  are  both 
young  dogs)  exactly  in  their  usual  manner ;  coming  behind 
the  basket  phaeton  as  we  trotted  along,  and  lifting  their 
heads  to  have  their  ears  pulled  —  a  special  attention  which 
they  receive  from  no  one  else.  But  when  I  drove  into  the 
stableyard,  Linda  (the  St.  Bernard)  was  greatly  excited ; 
weeping  profusely,  and  throwing  herself  on  her  back,  that 
she  might  caress  my  foot  with  her  great  fore-paws. 
Mamie's  little  dog,  too,  Mrs.  Bouncer,  barked  in  the 
greatest  agitation  on  being  called  down  and  asked  by 
Mamie,  "  Who  is  this  ? "  and  tore  round  and  round  me, 
like  the  dog  in  the  Faust  outlines.  You  must  know  that 
all  the  farmers  turned  out  on  the  road  in  their  market- 
chaises  to  say,  "  Welcome  home,  sir ! "  and  that  all  the 
houses  along  the  road  were  dressed  with  flags ;  and  that 
our  servants,  to  cut  out  the  rest,  had  dressed  this  house 
so  that  every  brick  of  it  was  hidden.  They  had  asked 
Mamie's  permission  to  "ring  the  alarm  bell"  (!)  when 
166 


Gads  Hill's  Birds 

master  drove  up,  but  Mamie,  having  some  slight  idea  that 
that  compliment  might  awaken  master's  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  had  recommended  bell  abstinence.  But  on 
Sunday  the  village  choir  (which  includes  the  bell-ringers) 
made  amends.  After  some  unusually  brief  pious  reflections 
in  the  crowns  of  their  hats,  at  the  end  of  the  sermon,  the 
ringers  bolted  out,  and  rang  like  mad  until  I  got  home. 
There  had  been  a  conspiracy  among  the  villagers  to  take 
the  horse  out,  if  I  had  come  to  our  own  station,  and  draw 
me  here.  Mamie  and  Georgy  had  got  wind  of  it  and 
warned  me. 

Divers  birds  sing  here  all  day,  and  the  nightingales  all 
night.  The  place  is  lovely,  and  in  perfect  order.  I  have 
put  five  mirrors  in  the  Swiss  chalet  (where  I  write),  and 
they  reflect  and  refract  in  all  kinds  of  ways  the  leaves 
that  are  quivering  at  the  windows,  and  the  great  fields  of 
waving  corn,  and  the  sail-dotted  river.  My  room  is  up 
among  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  the  birds  and  the 
butterflies  fly  in  and  out,  and  the  green  branches  shoot  in, 
at  the  open  windows,  and  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the 
clouds  come  and  go  with  the  rest  of  the  company.  The 
scent  of  the  flowers,  and  indeed  of  everything  that  is 
growing  for  miles  and  miles,  is  most  delicious. 

Dolby  (who  sends  a  world  of  messages)  found  his  wife 
much  better  than  he  expected,  and  the  children  (wonder- 
ful to  relate  !)  perfect.  The  little  girl  winds  up  her  prayers 
every  night  with  a  special  commendation  to  Heaven  of  me 
and  the  pony — as  if  I  must  mount  him  to  get  there  !  I 
dine  with  Dolby  (I  was  going  to  write  "  him,"  but  found  it 
would  look  as  if  I  were  going  to  dine  with  the  pony)  at 
Greenwich  this  very  day,  and  if  your  ears  do  not  burn 
from  six  to  nine  this  evening,  then  the  Atlantic  is  a  non- 
conductor. 

It  is  time  I  should  explain  the  otherwise  inexplicable 


Prayers  for  the  Fields 

enclosure.  Will  you  tell  Fields,  with  my  love  (I  suppose 
he  hasn't  used  all  the  pens  yet  ?),  that  I  think  there  is  in 
Tremont  Street  a  set  of  my  books,  sent  out  by  Chapman, 
not  arrived  when  I  departed.  Such  set  of  the  immortal 
works  of  our  illustrious,  etc.,  is  designed  for  the  gentle- 
man to  whom  the  enclosure  is  addressed.  If  T.,  F.  & 
Co.  will  kindly  forward  the  set  (carriage  paid)  with  the 

enclosure  to 's  address,  I  will  invoke  new  blessings 

on  their  heads,  and  will  get  Dolby's  little  daughter  to 
mention  them  nightly. 

"No  Thoroughfare"  is  very  shortly  coming  out  in 
Paris,  where  it  is  now  in  active  rehearsal.  It  is  still 
playing  here,  but  without  Fechter,  who  has  been  very  ill. 
The  doctor's  dismissal  of  him  to  Paris,  however,  and  his 
getting  better  there,  enables  him  to  get  up  the  play  there. 
He  and  Wilkie  missed  so  many  pieces  of  stage-effect  here, 
that,  unless  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  his  report,  I  shall  go 
over  and  try  my  stage-managerial  hand  at  the  Vaude-, 
ville  theatre.  —  Ever,  my  dear  Mrs.  Fields,  your  most 
affectionate  friend. 


168 


VIII 
URBANITY  AND  NONSENSE 

Horace  Walpole  affects  to  reprimand  Lady  Howe   ^^ 

November  10,  1764 

SOH  !  Madam,  you  expect  to  be  thanked,  because 
you  have  done  a  very  obliging  thing  !  But  I  won't 
thank  you,  and  I  won't  be  obliged.  It  is  very  hard  one 
can't  come  into  your  house  and  commend  anything,  but 
you  must  recollect  it  and  send  it  after  one  !  I  will  never 
dine  in  your  house  again ;  and,  when  I  do,  I  will  like 
nothing ;  and  when  I  do,  I  will  commend  nothing ;  and 
when  I  do,  you  shan't  remember  it.  You  are  very  grateful 
indeed  to  Providence  that  gave  you  so  good  a  memory, 
to  stuff  it  with  nothing  but  bills  of  fare  of  what  everybody 
likes  to  eat  and  drink  !  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  — 
I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  !  Do  you  think  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  gluttony  of  the  memory?  —  you  a  Christian! 
a  pretty  account  you  will  be  able  to  give  of  yourself  !  Your 
fine  folks  in  France  may  call  this  friendship  and  attention, 
perhaps,  but  sure,  if  I  was  to  go  to  the  devil,  it  should  be 
for  thinking  of  nothing  but  myself,  not  of  others,  from 
morning  to  night.  I  would  send  back  your  temptations, 
169 


Borrowing  a  Waistcoat 

but,  as  I  will  not  be  obliged  to  you  for  them,  verily  I 
shall  retain  them  to  punish  you ;  ingratitude  being  a 
proper  chastisement  for  sinful  friendliness.  —  Thine  in 
spirit,  PILCHARD  WHITFIELD 


Charles  Dickens  implores  the  loan  of  a  great  tragedian's 
fancy  vest      ^>        ^>        *v^        ^>         ^> 

DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE, 
Friday  Evening,  October  17,  1845 

MY  DEAR  M  ACRE  AD  Y,  —  You  once  — only  once  — 
gave  the  world  assurance  of  a  waistcoat.  You  wore 
it,  sir,  I  think,  in  "  Money."  It  was  a  remarkable  and 
precious  waistcoat,  wherein  certain  broad  strips  of  blue 
or  purple  disported  themselves  as  by  a  combination  of 
extraordinary  circumstances,  too  happy  to  occur  again. 
I  have  seen  it  on  your  manly  chest  in  private  life.  I  saw 
it,  sir,  I  think,  the  other  day  in  the  cold  light  of  morning 
—  with  feelings  easier  to  be  imagined  than  described. 
Mr.  Macready,  sir,  are  you  a  father?  If  so,  lend  me 
that  waistcoat  for  five  minutes.  I  am  bidden  to  a 
wedding  (where  fathers  are  made),  and  my  artist  cannot, 
I  find  (how  should  he?),  imagine  such  a  waistcoat.  Let 
me  show  it  to  him  as  a  sample  of  my  tastes  and  wishes ; 
and  —  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  eclipse  the  bridegroom  ! 

I  will  send  a  trusty  messenger  at  half-past  nine  precisely, 
In  the  morning.     He  is  sworn  to  secrecy.     He  durst  not 
for  his  life  betray  us,  or  swells  in  ambuscade  would  have 
the  waistcoat  at  the  cost  of  his  heart's  blood.  —  Thine, 
THE  UNWAISTCOATED  ONE 


170 


The  Land  of  Thieves 

Charles  Lamb  brings  himself  to  write  to  Australia    ^y 
(To  Barren  Field) 

August  31,  1817 

MY  DEAR  BARRON,  —  The  bearer  of  this  letter  so 
far  across  the  seas  is  Mr.  Lawrey,  who  comes  out 
to  you  as  a  missionary,  and  whom  I  have  been  strongly 
importuned  to  recommend  to  you  as  a  most  worthy 
creature  by  Mr.  Fenwick,  a  very  old,  honest  friend  of 
mine,  of  whom,  if  my  memory  does  not  deceive  me, 
you  have  had  some  knowledge  heretofore  as  editor  of 
the  Statesman  —  a  man  of  talent,  and  patriotic.  If  you 
can  show  him  any  facilities  in  his  arduous  undertaking, 
you  will  oblige  us  much.  Well,  and  how  does  the  land 
of  thieves  use  you?  and  how  do  you  pass  your  time  in 
your  extra-judical  intervals?  Going  about  the  streets 
with  a  lantern,  like  Diogenes,  looking  for  an  honest  man? 
You  may  look  long  enough,  I  fancy.  Do  give  me  some 
notion  of  the  manners  of  the  inhabitants  where  you  are. 
They  don't  thieve  all  day  long,  do  they?  No  human 
property  could  stand  such  continuous  battery.  And  what 
do  they  do  when  they  an't  stealing? 

Have  you  got  a  theatre?  What  pieces  are  performed? 
Shakespear's,  I  suppose  —  not  so  much  for  the  poetry,  as 
for  his  having  once  been  in  danger  of  leaving  his  country 
on  account  of  certain  "  small  deer." 

Have  you  poets  among  you?  Cursed  plagiarists,  I 
fancy,  if  you  have  any.  I  would  not  trust  an  idea  or  a 
pocket-hankerchief  of  mine  among  'em.  You  are  almost 
competent  to  answer  Lord  Bacon's  problem,  whether  a 
nation  of  atheists  can  subsist  together.  You  are 
practically  in  one  :  — 

"  So  thievish  'tis,  that  the  eighth  commandment  itself 
Scarce  seemeth  there  to  be." 
171 


Distant  Correspondents 

Our  old  honest  world  goes  on  with  little  perceptible 
variation.  Of  course  you  have  heard  of  poor  Mitchell's 
death,  and  that  G.  Dyer  is  one  of  Lord  Stanhope's 
residuaries.  I  am  afraid  he  has  not  touched  much  of 
the  residue  yet.  He  is  positively  as  lean  as  Cassius. 
Barnes  is  going  to  Demerara  or  Essequibo,  I  am  not 
quite  certain  which.  A[lsager]  is  turned  actor.  He 
came  out  in  genteel  comedy  at  Cheltenham  this  season, 
and  has  hopes  of  a  London  engagement. 

For  my  own  history,  I  am  just  in  the  same  spot,  doing 
the  same  thing  (videlicet,  little  or  nothing),  as  when  you 
left  me ;  -only  I  have  positive  hopes  that  I  shall  be  able 
to  conquer  that  inveterate  habit  of  smoking  which  you 
may  remember  I  indulged  in.  I  think  of  making  a 
beginning  this  evening,  namely,  Sunday,  3ist  Augus'- 
1817,  not  Wednesday,  2nd  February  1818,  as  it  will  be, 
perhaps,  when  you  read  this  for  the  first  time.  There  is 
the  difficulty  of  writing  from  one  end  of  the  globe 
(hemispheres  I  call  'em)  to  another !  Why,  half  the 
truths  I  have  sent  you  in  this  letter  will  become  lies 
before  they  reach  you,  and  some  of  the  lies  (which  I  have 
mixed  for  variety's  sake,  and  to  exercise  your  judgment 
in  the  finding  of  them  out)  may  be  turned  into  sad 
realities  before  you  shall  be  called  upon  to  detect  them. 
Such  are  the  defects  of  going  by  different  chronologies. 
Your  now  is  not  my  now ;  and  again,  your  then  is  not  my 
then ;  but  my  now  may  be  your  then,  and  vice  versd. 
Whose  head  is  competent  to  these  things? 

How  does  Mrs.  Field  get  on  in  her  geography?  Does 
she  know  where  she  is  by  this  time?  I  am  not  sure 
sometimes  you  are  not  in  another  planet;  but  then  I 
don't  like  to  ask  Capt.  Burney,  or  any  of  those  that 
know  anything  about  it,  for  fear  of  exposing  my 
ignorance. 

172 


Mrs.  Johnson's  Pick-Axe 

Our  kindest  remembrances,  however,  to  Mrs.  F.,  if 
she  will  accept  of  reminiscences  from  another  planet,  or 
at  least  another  hemisphere.  C.  L. 


The  Dean  extemporises  to  Dr.  Sheridan       ^y       ^ 
(To  Dr.  Sheridan) 

January  25,  1724-5 
HAVE  a  packet  of  letters,  which  I  intended  to  send 


i 


by  Molly,  who  has  been  stopped  three  days  by  the 
bad  weather;  but  now  I  will  send  them  by  the  post 
to-morrow  to  Kells,  and  enclosed  to  Mr.  Tickell ;  there 
is  one  to  you  and  one  to  James  Stopford. 

I  can  do  no  work  this  terrible  weather ;  which  has  put 
us  all  seventy  times  out  of  patience.  I  have  been  deaf 
nine  days,  and  am  now  pretty  well  recovered  again. 

Pray  desire  Mr.  Stanton  and  Mr.  Worral  to  continue 
giving  themselves  some  trouble  with  Mr.  Pratt ;  but  let 
it  succeed  or  not,  I  hope  I  shall  be  easy. 

Mrs.  Johnson  swears  it  will  rain  till  Michaelmas. 
She  is  so  pleased  with  her  pick-axe,  that  she  wears  it 
fastened  to  her  girdle  on  her  left  side,  in  balance  with 
her  watch.  The  lake  is  strangely  overflown,  and  we  are 
desperate  about  turf,  being  forced  to  lay  it  three  miles 
off;  and  Mrs.  Johnson  (God  help  her!)  gives  you  many 
a  curse.  Your  mason  is  come,  but  cannot  yet  work  upon 
your  garden.  Neither  can  I  agree  with  him  about  the 
great  wall.  For  the  rest,  vide  the  letter  you  will  have  on 
Monday,  if  Mr.  Tickell  uses  you  well. 

The  news  of  the  country  is,  that  the  maid   you  sent 
down,  John  Farelly's  sister,  is  married ;  but  the  portion 
and  settlement  are  yet  a  secret.     The  cows  here  never 
give  milk  on  Midsummer  Eve. 
173 


The  Servants'   Maxim 

You  would  wonder  what  carking  and  caring  there  is 
among  us  for  small  beer  and  lean  mutton,  and  stewed 
lamb,  and  stopping  gaps,  and  driving  cattle  from  the 
covers.  In  that  we  are  all-to-be-Dingleyed. 

The  ladies1  room  smokes,  the  rain  drops  from  the  skies 
into  the  kitchen,  our  servants  eat  and  drink  like  the  devil, 
and  pray  for  rain,  which  entertains  them  at  cards  and 
sleep,  which  are  revels  lighter  than  spades,  sledges,  and 
crows.  Their  maxim  is  — 

Eat  like  a  Turk, 

Sleep  like  a  dormouse, 
Be  last  at  work, 

At  victuals  foremost. 

Which  is  all  at  present ;  hoping  you  and  your  good  family 
are  well,  as  we  are  all  at  this  present  writing,  etc. 

Robin  has  just  carried  out  a  load  of  bread  and  cold 
meat  for  breakfast ;  this  is  their  way ;  but  now  a  cloud 
hangs  over  them,  for  fear  it  should  hold  up,  and  the 
clouds  blow  off. 

I  write  on  till  Molly  comes  in  for  the  letter.  O,  what 
a  draggletail  she  will  be  before  she  gets  to  Dublin!  I 
wish  she  may  not  happen  to  fall  upon  her  back  by  the 
way. 

I  affirm  against  Aristotle  that  cold  and  rain  congregate 
homogenes,  for  they  gather  together  you  and  your  crew, 
at  whist,  punch,  and  claret.  Happy  weather  for  Mr. 
Mauls,  Betty,  and  Stopford,  and  all  true  lovers  of  cards 
and  laziness. 

BLESSINGS  OF  A  COUNTRY  LIFE 

Far  from  our  debtors, 

No  Dublin  letters, 

Not  seen  by  our  betters. 

174 


William  Cowper's   Morning 

THE  PLAGUES  OF  A  COUNTRY  LIFE 

A  companion  with  news, 
A  great  want  of  shoes ; 
Eat  lean  meat,  or  choose ; 
A  church  without  pews. 
Our  horses  astray, 
No  straw,  oats,  or  hay ; 
December  in  May, 
Our  boys  now  away, 
Our  servants  at  play. 


William  Cowper  looks  backward       ^>        ^>       ^ 
(To  the  Rev.  John  Newton) 

February  10,  1784 
Y  DEAR  FRIEND,  — The  morning  is  my  writing 


time,  and  in  the  morning  I  have  no  spirits.  So 
much  the  worse  for  my  correspondents.  Sleep  that  re- 
freshes my  body,  seems  to  cripple  me  in  every  other 
respect. 

As  the  evening  approaches,  I  grow  more  alert,  and 
when  I  am  retiring  to  bed,  am  more  fit  for  mental  occupa- 
tion than  at  any  other  time. 

So  it  fares  with  us  whom  they  call  nervous.  By  a 
strange  inversion  of  the  animal  economy,  we  are  ready 
to  sleep  when  we  have  most  need  to  be  awake,  and  go  to 
bed  just  when  we  might  sit  up  to  some  purpose. 

The  watch  is  irregularly  wound  up,  it  goes  in  the  night 
when  it  is  not  wanted,  and  in  the  day  stands  still. 

In  many  respects  we  have  the  advantage  of  our  fore- 
fathers the  Picts.  We  sleep  in  a  whole  skin,  and  are  not 
obliged  to  submit  to  the  painful  operation  of  puncturing 
ourselves  from  head  to  foot  in  order  that  we  may  be 
decently  dressed,  and  fit  to  appear  abroad. 
'75 


The  Happy  Picts 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  have  reason  enough  to  envy 
them  their  tone  of  nerves,  and  that  flow  of  spirits  which 
effectually  secured  them  from  all  uncomfortable  im- 
pressions of  a  gloomy  atmosphere,  and  from  every  shade 
of  melancholy  from  every  other  cause.  They  under- 
stood, I  suppose,  the  use  of  vulnerary  herbs,  having 
frequent  occasion  for  some  skill  in  surgery ;  but  physi- 
cians, I  presume,  they  had  none,  having  no  need  of  any. 

Is  it  possible,  that  a  creature  like  myself  can  be  de- 
scended from  such  progenitors,  in  whom  there  appears 
not  a  single  trace  of  family  resemblance? 

What  an  alteration  have  a  few  ages  made?  They, 
without  clothing,  would  defy  the  severest  season ;  and  I, 
with  all  the  accommodations  that  art  has  since  invented, 
am  hardly  secure  even  in  the  mildest. 

If  the  wind  blows  upon  me  when  my  pores  are  open, 
I  catch  cold.  A  cough  is  the  consequence. 

I  suppose  if  such  a  disorder  could  have  seized  a  Pict, 
his  friends  would  have  concluded  that  a  bone  had  stuck 
in  his  throat,  and  that  he  was  in  some  danger  of  choking. 

They  would  perhaps  have  addressed  themselves  to  the 
cure  of  his  cough  by  thrusting  their  fingers  into  his 
gullet,  which  would  only  have  exasperated  the  case. 

But  they  would  never  have  thought  of  administering 
laudanum,  my  only  remedy.  For  this  difference,  how- 
ever, that  has  obtained  between  me  and  my  ancestors, 
I  am  indebted  to  the  luxurious  practices,  and  enfeebling 
self-indulgence,  of  a  long  line  of  grandsires,  who  from 
generation  to  generation  have  been  employed  in  de- 
teriorating the  breed,  till  at  last  the  collected  effects  of 
all  their  follies  have  centred  in  my  puny  self,  —  a  man 
indeed,  but  not  in  the  image  of  those  that  went  before 
me ;  —  a  man,  who  sighs  and  groans,  who  wears  out  life  in 
dejection  and  oppression  of  spirits,  and  who  never  thinks 


The  Visionary  Adam 

of  the  aborigines  of  the  country  to  which  he  belongs, 
without  wishing  that  he  had  been  born  among  them. 
The  evil  is  without  a  remedy,  unless  the  ages  that  are 
passed  could  be  recalled,  my  whole  pedigree  being  per- 
mitted to  live  again,  and  being  properly  admonished  to 
beware  of  enervating  sloth  and  refinement,  would  preserve 
their  hardiness  of  nature  unimpaired,  and  transmit  the 
desirable  quality  to  their  posterity.  I  once  saw  Adam 
in  a  dream.  We  sometimes  say  of  a  picture,  that  we 
doubt  not  its  likeness  to  the  original,  though  we  never 
saw  him  ;  a  judgment  we  have  some  reason  to  form,  when 
the  face  is  strongly  charactered,  and  the  features  full  of 
expression. 

So  I  think  of  my  visionary  Adam,  and  for  a  similar 
reason.  His  figure  was  awkward  in  the  extreme.  It  was 
evident  that  he  had  never  been  taught  by  a  Frenchman  to  ' 
hold  his  head  erect,  or  to  turn  out  his  toes ;  to  dispose 
gracefully  of  his  arms,  or  to  simper  without  a  meaning. 
But  if  Mr.  Bacon  was  called  upon  to  produce  a  statue  of 
Hercules,  he  need  not  wish  for  a  juster  pattern.  He 
stood  like  a  rock ;  the  size  of  his  limbs,  the  prominence  of 
his  muscles,  and  the  height  of  his  stature,  all  conspired 
to  bespeak  him  a  creature  whose  strength  had  suffered 
no  diminution ;  and  who,  being  the  first  of  his  race,  did 
not  come  into  the  world  under  a  necessity  of  sustaining 
a  load  of  infirmities,  derived  to  him  from  the  intemper- 
ance of  others. 

He  was  as  much  stouter  than  a  Pict,  as  I  suppose  a 
Pict  to  have  been  than  I.  Upon  my  hypothesis,  there- 
fore, there  has  been  a  gradual  declension,  in  point  of 
bodily  vigour,  from  Adam  down  to  me ;  at  least  if  my 
dream  were  a  just  representation  of  that  gentleman,  and 
deserve  the  credit  I  cannot  help  giving  it,  such  must  have 
been  the  case.  —  Yours,  my  dear  friend,  W.  C. 

N  177 


Christmas  in  China 
Charles  Lamb  invents  for  Manning      ^^      ^>- 

December  25, 

DEAR  OLD  P^RIEND  AND  ABSENTEE, —This 
is  Christmas-day  1815  with  us;  what  it  may  be 
with  you  I  don't  know,  the  I2th  of  June  next  year  per- 
haps ;  and  if  it  should  be  the  consecrated  season  with 
you,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  keep  it.  You  have  no 
turkeys ;  you  would  not  desecrate  the  festival  by  offering 
up  a  withered  Chinese  bantam,  instead  of  the  savoury 
grand  Norfolcian  holocaust,  that  smokes  all  around  my 
nostrils  at  this  moment  from  a  thousand  firesides.  Then 
what  puddings  have  you?  Where  will  you  get  holly  to 
stick  in  your  churches,  or  churches  to'  stick  your  dried 
tea-leaves  (that  must  be  the  substitute)  in?  What 
memorials  you  can  have  of  the  holy  time,  I  see  not.  A 
chopped  missionary  or  two  may  keep  up  the  thin  idea 
of  Lent  and  the  wilderness ;  but  what  standing  evidence 
have  you  of  the  Nativity  ?  —  'tis  our  rosy-cheeked,  home- 
stalled  divines,  whose  faces  shine  to  the  tune  of  Unto  us 
a  child  \  faces  fragrant  with  the  mince-pies  of  half  a 
century,  that  alone  can  authenticate  the  cheerful  mystery 
-I  feel. 

I  feel  my  bowels  refreshed  with  the  holy  tide  —  my  zeal 
is  great  against  the  unedified  heathen.  Down  with  the 
Pagodas  —  down  with  the  idols  —  Ching-chong-fo  —  and  his 
foolish  priesthood  !  Come  out  of  Babylon,  O  my  friend  ! 
for  her  time  is  come,  and  the  child  that  is  native,  and 
the  Proselyte  of  her  gates,  shall  kindle  and  smoke 
together  !  And  in  sober  sense  what  makes  you  so  long 
from  among  us,  Manning?  You  must  not  expect  to  see 
the  same  England  again  which  you  left. 

Empires  have  been  overturned,  crowns  trodden  into 
dust,  the  face  of  the  western  world  quite  changed :  your 


A  Tissue  of  Good  Lies 

friends  have  all  got  old — those  you  left  blooming  —  myself  - 
(who  am  one  of  the  few  that  remember  you)  those  golden 
hairs  which  you  recollect  my  taking  a  pride  in,  turned  to 
silvery  and  grey.  Mary  has  been  dead  and  buried  many 
years  —  she  desired  to  be  buried  in  the  silk  gown  you 
sent  her.  Rickman,  that  you  remember  active  and 
strong,  now  walks  out  supported  by  a  servant  maid  and 
a  stick.  Martin  Burney  is  a  very  old  man.  The  other 
day  an  aged  woman  knocked  at  my  door,  and  pretended 
to  my  acquaintance ;  it  was  long  before  I  had  the  most 
distant  cognition  of  her;  but  at  last  together  we  made 
her  out  to  be  Louisa,  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Topham, 
formerly  Mrs.  Morton,  who  had  been  Mrs.  Reynolds, 
formerly  Mrs.  Kenney,  whose  first  husband  wras  Holcroft, 
the  dramatic  writer  of  the  last  century.  St.  Paul's  Church 
is  a  heap  of  ruins ;  the  Monument  isn't  half  so  high  as 
you  knew  it,  divers  parts  being  successively  taken  down 
which  the  ravages  of  time  had  rendered  dangerous ;  the 
horse  at  Charing  Cross  is  gone,  no  one  knows  whither, — 
and  all  this  has  taken  place  while  you  have  been  settling 

whether    Ho-hing-tong  should  be    spelt  with  a or    a 

.     For  aught  I   see  you   had  almost  as  well  remain 

where  you  are,  and  not  come  like  a  Struldbug  into  a 
world  where  few  were  born  when  you  went  away.  Scarce 
here  and  there  one  will  be  able  to  make  out  your  face ; 
all  your  opinions  will  be  out  of  date,  your  jokes  obsolete, 
your  puns  rejected  with  fastidiousness  as  wit  of  the  last 
age.  Your  way  of  mathematics  has  already  given  way 
to  a  new  method,  which  after  all  is,  I  believe,  the  old 
doctrine  of  Maclaurin,  new-vamped  up  with  what  he 
borrowed  of  the  negative  quantity  of  fluxions  from 
Euler. 

Poor  Godwin  !     I  was  passing  his  tomb  the  other  day 
in    Cripplegate     churchyard.      There    are     some    verses 
179 


Exaggerated  Deaths 

upon  it  written  by  Miss  Hayes,  which  if  I  thought  good 
enough  I  would  send  you.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
would  have  hailed  your  return,  not  with  boisterous  shouts 
and  clamours,  but  with  the  complacent  gratulations  of 
a  philosopher  anxious  to  promote  knowledge  as  lead- 
ing to  happiness  —  but  his  systems  and  his  theories  are 
ten  feet  deep  in  Cripplegate  mould.  Coleridge  is  just 
dead,  having  lived  just  long  enough  to  close  the  eyes 
of  Wordsworth,  who  paid  the  debt  to  nature  but  a 
week  or  two  before.  Poor  Col.,  but  two  days  before 
he  died  he  wrote  to  a  bookseller  proposing  an  epic 
poem  on  the  "Wanderings  of  Cain,"  in  twenty-four 
books.  It  is  said  he  has  left  behind  him  more  than 
forty  thousand  treatises  in  criticism  and  metaphysics, 
but  few  of  them  in  a  state  of  completion.  They  are  now 
destined,  perhaps,  to  wrap  up  spices.  You  see  what 
mutations  the  busy  hand  of  Time  has  produced,  while 
you  have  consumed  in  foolish  voluntary  exile  that  time 
which  might  have  gladdened  your  friends  —  benefited 
your  country ;  but  reproaches  are  useless.  Gather  up 
the  wretched  reliques,  my  friend  as  fast  as  you  can,  and 
come  to  your  old  home.  I  will  rub  my  eyes  and  try  to 
recognise  you.  We  will  shake  withered  hands  together, 
and  talk  of  old  things  —  of  St.  Mary's  Church  and  the 
barber's  opposite,  where  the  young  students  in  mathe- 
matics used  to  assemble.  Poor  Crisp,  that  kept  it  after- 
wards, set  up  a  fruiterer's  shop  in  Trumpington  Street, 
and  for  aught  I  know,  resides  there  still,  for  I  saw  the 
name  up  in  the  last  journey  I  took  there  with  my  sister 
just  before  she  died.  I  suppose  you  heard  that  I-  had 
left  the  India  House,  and  gone  into  the  Fishmongers' 
Almshouses  over  the  bridge.  I  have  a  little  cabin  there, 
small  and  homely ;  but  you  shall  be  welcome  to  it.  You 
like  oysters,  and  to  open  them  yourself;  I'll  get  you 
1 80 


Bribing  a  Dean 

some  if  you  come  in  oyster  time.  Marshall,  Godwin's 
old  friend,  is  still  alive,  and  talks  of  the  faces  you  used  to 
make.  Come  as  soon  as  you  can. 

C.  LAMB 


The  Dean  jests  with  Miss  Hoadley      ^^      *£y      ^x 

June  4,  1734 

MADAM,  —  When  I  lived  in  England,  once  every 
year  I  .issued  out  an  edict,  commanding  that  all 
ladies  of  wit,  sense,  merit,  and  quality,  who  had  an 
ambition  to  be  acquainted  with  me,  should  make  the 
first  advances  at  their  peril ;  which  edict,  you  may 
believe,  was  universally  obeyed.  When  (much  against 
my  will)  I  came  to  live  in  this  kingdom,  I  published 
the  same  edict  ;  only,  the  harvest  here  being  not 
altogether  so  plentiful,  I  confined  myself  to  a  smaller 
compass.  This  made  me  often  wonder  how  you  came 
so  long  to  neglect  your  duty;  for,  if  you  pretend 
ignorance,  I  may  produce  legal  witnesses  against 
you. 

I  have  heard  of  a  judge  bribed  with  a  pig,  but  it  was 
discovered  by  the  squeaking ;  and,  therefore,  you  have 
been  so  politic  as  to  send  me  a  dead  one,  which  can  tell 
no  tales.  Your  present  of  butter  was  made  with  the 
same  design,  as  a  known  court  practice,  to  grease  my 
fist  that  I  might  keep  silence.  These  are  great  offences, 
contrived  on  purpose  to  corrupt  my  integrity.  And, 
besides,  I  apprehend,  that  if  I  should  wait  on  you  to 
return  my  thanks,  you  will  deny  that  the  pig  and  butter 
were  any  advances  at  all  on  your  side,  and  give  out 
that  I  made  them  first :  by  which  I  may  endanger  the 
fundamental  privilege,  that  I  have  kept  so  many  years 
181 


A  Dean's  Threats 

m  the  kingdom,  at  least  make  it  a  point  of  controversy. 
However,  I  have  two  ways  to  be  revenged:  first,  I  will 
let  all  the  ladies  of  my  acquaintance  know,  that  you,  the 
sole  daughter  and  child  of  his  Grace  of  Dublin,  one  so 
mean  as  to  descend  to  understand  housewifery ;  which 
every  girl  of  this  town,  who  can  afford  sixpence  a  month 
for  a  chair,  would  scorn  to  be  thought  to  have  the  least 
knowledge  in ;  and  this  will  give  you  as  ill  a  reputation 
as  if  you  had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  reading  a  history, 
or  handling  a  needle,  or  working  in  a  field  at  Tallagh. 
My  other  revenge  shall  be  this :  when  my  lord's  gentle- 
man delivered  his  message,  after  I  put  him  some 
questions,  he  drew  out  a  paper  containing  your  direc- 
tions, and  in  your  hand ;  I  said  it  properly  belonged 
to  me ;  and,  when  I  had  read  it,  I  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
and  am  ready  to  swear,  when  lawfully  called,  that  it  is 
written  in  a  fair  hand,  rightly  spelt,  and  good  plain 
sense.  You  now  may  see  I  have  you  at  mercy;  for, 
upon  the  least  offence  given,  I  will  show  the  paper  to 
every  female  scrawler  I  meet,  who  will  soon  spread 
about  the  town  that  your  writing  and  spelling  are 
ungenteel  and  unfashionable,  more  like  a  parson  than 
a  lady. 

I  suppose,  by  this  time,  you  are  willing  to  submit ; 
and,  therefore,  I  desire  you  may  stint  me  to  two  china 
bowls  of  butter  a-week ;  for  my  breakfast  is  that  of 
a  sickly  man,  rice  gruel,  and  I  am  wholly  a  stranger  to 
tea  and  coffee,  the  companions  of  bread  and  butter. 
I  received  my  third  bowl  last  night,  and  I  think  my 
second  is  almost  entire.  I  hope  and  believe  my  lord 
archbishop  will  teach  his  neighbouring  tenants  and 
farmers  a  little  English  country  management ;  and  I 
lay  it  upon  you,  madam,  to  bring  ^housewifery  in  fashion 
among  our  ladies ;  that,  by  your  example,  they  may  no 
182 


Prose  in  Verse 

longer  pride  themselves  on  their  natural  or  affected  igno- 
rance. —  I  am,  with  the  truest  respect  and  esteem,  Madam, 
your  most  obedient  and  obliged,  etc., 

JON.   SWIFT 

I  desire  to  present  my  most  etc.,  to  his  grace  and  the 
ladies. 


William  Cowper  drops  into  verse       ^^       ^^       ^^y 
(To  the  Rev.  John  Newton) 

July  12,  1781 

MY  VERY  DEAR  FRIEND,  — I  am  going  to  send, 
what  when  you  have  read,  you  may  scratch  your 
head,  and  say,  I  suppose,  there's  nobody  knows,  whether 
what  I  have  got  be  verse  or  not:  by  the  tune  and  the 
time,  it  ought  to  be  rhyme  ;  but  if  it  be,  did  you  ever  see, 
of  late  or  of  yore,  such  a  ditty  before?  The  thought  did 
occur  to  me  and  to  her,  as  Madam  and  I,  did  walk  and 
not  fly,  over  hills  and  dales,  with  spreading  sails,  before 
it  was  dark,  to  Weston  Park. 

The  news  at  Oney  is  little  or  noney,  but  such  as  it  is, 
I  send  it,  viz.  —  Poor  Mr0  Peace  cannot  yet  cease  addling 
his  head  with  what  you  said,  and  has  left  parish-church 
quite  in  the  lurch,  having  almost  swore  to  go  there  no 
more. 

Page  and  his  wife,  that  made  such  a  strife,  we  met 
them  twain  in  Dog  Lane ;  we  gave  them  the  wall,  and 
that  was  all.  For  Mr.  Scott,  we  have  seen  him  not, 
except  as  he  pass'd,  in  a  wonderful  haste,  to  see  a  friend 
in  Silver  End.  Mrs.  Jones  proposes,  ere  July  closes, 
that  she  and  her  sister,  and  her  Jones  Mister,  and  we 
that  are  here,  our  course  shall  steer  to  dine  in  the 

183 


Epistolary  Champagne 

Spinney;  but  for  a  guinea,  if  the  weather  should  hold 
so  hot  and  so  cold,  we  had  better  by  far  stay  where  we 
are.  For  the  grass  there  grows  while  nobody  mows 
(which  is  very  wrong)  so  rank  and  long,  that,  so  to 
speak,  'tis  at  least  a  week,  if  it  happens  to  rain,  ere  it 
dries  again.  I  have  writ  Charity,  not  for  popularity,  but 
as  well  as  I  could,  in  hopes  to  do  good ;  and  if  the 
Reviewer  should  say  "  to  be  sure,  the  gentleman's  Muse 
wears  Methodist  shoes ;  you  may  know  by  her  pace,  and 
talk  about  grace,  that  she  and  her  bard  have  little  regard 
for  the  taste  and  fashions,  and  ruling  passions,  and 
hoidening  play,  of  the  modern  day ;  and  though  she 
assume  a  borrowed  plume,  and  now  and  then  wear 
a  tittering  air,  'tis  only  her  plan  to  catch  if  she  can 
the  giddy  and  gay,  as  they  go  that  way,  by  a  produc- 
tion on  a  new  construction.  She  has  baited  her 
trap  in  hopes  to  snap  all  that  may  come  with  a  sugar- 
plum." — 

His  opinion  in  this  will  not  be  amiss ;  'tis  what  I 
intend,  my  principal  end;  and  if  I  succeed,  and  folks 
should  read,  till  a  few  are  brought  to  a  serious  thought, 
I  shall  think  I  am  paid  for  all  I  have  said  and  all  I 
have  done,  though  I  have  run,  many  a  time,  after  a 
rhyme,  as  far  as  from  hence  to  the  end  of  my  sense,  and 
by  hook  or  crook,  write  another  book,  if  I  live  and  am 
here,  another  year.  I  have  heard  before,  of  a  room  with 
a  floor  laid  upon  springs  and  such  like  things,  with  so 
much  art,  in  every  part,  that  when  you  went  in,  you  was 
forced  to  begin  a  minuet  pace,  with  an  air  and  a  grace, 
swimming  about,  now  in  and  now  out,  with  a  deal  of 
state,  in  a  figure  of  eight,  without  pipe  or  string,  or  any 
such  thing ;  and  now  I  have  writ,  in  a  rhyming  fit,  what 
will  make  you  dance,  and  as  you  advance,  will  keep  you 
still,  though  against  your  will,  dancing  away,  alert  and  gay, 
184 


Against  Tartary 

till  you  come  to  an  end  of  what  I  have  penn'd ;  which 
that  you  may  do  ere  Madam  and  you  are  quite  worn 
out  with  jigging  about,  I  take  my  leave,  and  here  you 
receive  a  bow  profound,  down  to  the  ground,  from  your 
humble  me —  W.  C. 


P.S.  —  When  I  concluded,  doubtless  you  did-  think  me 
right,  as  well  you  might,  in  saying  what  I  said  of  Scott ; 
and  then  it  was  true,  but  now  it  is  due  to  him  to  note, 
that  since  I  wrote,  himself  and  he  has  visited  we. 


Charles  Lamb  cries  out  against  Tartary        •^        ^>- 

[February  19,  1803] 

MY  DEAR  MANNING,  — The  general  scope  of  your 
letter  afforded  no  indications  of  insanity,  but 
some  particular  points  raised  a  scruple.  For  God's 
sake  don't  think  any  more  of  "Independent  Tartary.11 
What  have  you  to  do  among  such  Ethiopians  ?  Is  there 
no  lineal  descendant  of  Prester  John  ? 

Is  the  chair  empty?  Is  the  sword  unswayed  ?  —  depend 
uponH  they1!!  never  make  you  their  king,  as  long  as  any 
branch  of  that  great  stock  is  remaining.  I  tremble  for 
your  Christianity.  They'll  certainly  circumcise  you.  Read 
Sir  John  Maundevil's  travels  to  cure  you,  or  come  over 
to  England.  There  is  a  Tartar-man  now  exhibiting  at 
Exeter  Change.  Come  and  talk  with  him,  and  hear 
what  he  says  first.  Indeed,  he  is  no  very  favorable 
specimen  of  his  Countrymen  !  But  perhaps  the  best 
thing  you  can  do,  is  to  try  to  get  the  idea  out  of  your 
head.  For  this  purpose  repeat  to  yourself  every  night, 
after  you  have  said  your  prayers,  the  words  Independent 
Tartary,  Independent  Tartary,  two  or  three  times,  and 


Chaucer's  Darling  Things 

associate  with  them  the  idea  of  oblivion  (His  Hartley's 
method  with  obstinate  memories),  or  say,  Independent, 
Independent,  have  I  not  already  got  an  Independence  ? 
That  was  a  clever  way  of  the  old  puritans  —  pun-divinity. 
My  dear  friend,  think  what  a  sad  pity  it  would  be  to  bury 
such  parts  in  heathen  countries,  among  nasty,  uncon- 
versable, horse-belching,  Tartar  people!  Some  say,  they 
are  Cannibals ;  and  then  conceive  a  Tartar-fellow  eating 
my  friend,  and  adding  the  cool  malignity  of  mustard  and 
vinegar!  I  am  afraid  'tis  the  reading  of  Chaucer  has 
misled  you ;  his  foolish  stories  about  Cambuscan  and  the 
ring,  and  the  horse  of  brass.  Believe  me,  there's  no  such 
things,  'tis  all  the  poet's  invention  ;  but  if  there  were  such 
darling  things  as  old  Chaucer  sings,  I  would  up  behind 
you  on  the  Horse  of  Brass,  and  frisk  off  for  Prester 
John's  Country.  But  these  are  all  tales ;  a  Horse  of 
Brass  never  flew,  and  a  King's  daughter  never  talked 
with  Birds!  The  Tartars,  really,  are  a  cold,  insipid, 
smouchey  set.  You'll  be  sadly  moped  (if  you  are  not 
eaten)  among  them.  Pray  try  and  cure  yourself.  Take 
Hellebore  (the  counsel  is  Horace's,  'twas  none  of  my 
thought  originally).  Shave  yourself  oftener.  Eat  no 
saffron,  for  saffron-eaters  contract  a  terrible  Tartar-like 
yellow.  Pray,  to  avoid  the  fiend.  Eat  nothing  that 
gives  the  heart-burn.  Shave  the  upper  lip.  Go  about 
like  an  European.  Read  no  books  of  voyages  (they're 
nothing  but  lies)  :  only  now  and  then  a  Romance,  to 
keep  the  fancy  under.  Above  all,  don't  go  to  any  sights 
of  wild  beasts.  That  has  been  your  ruin.  Accustom 
yourself  to  write  familiar  letters  on  common  subjects  to 
your  friends  in  England,  such  as  are  of  a  moderate 
understanding.  And  think  about  common  things  more. 
There's  your  friend  Holcroft  now  has  written  a  play. 
You  used  to  be  fond  of  the  drama.  Nobody  went  to 
1 86 


Shakespeare  the  Gentleman 

see  it.  Notwithstanding  this,  with  an  audacity  perfectly 
original,  he  faces  the  town  down  in  a  preface,  that  they 
did  like  it  very  much.  I  have  heard  a  waspish  punster 
say,  "Sir,  why  did  you  not  laugh  at  my  jest?"  But  for 
a  man  boldly  to  face  me  out  with,  "  Sir,  I  maintain  it, 
you  did  laugh  at  my  jest,"  is  a  little  too  much.  I  have 
seen  H.  but  once.  He  spoke  of  you  to  me  in  honourable 
terms.  H.  seems  to  me  to  be  drearily  dull.  Godwin  is 
dull,  but  then  he  has  a  dash  of  affectation,  which  smacks 
of  the  coxcomb,  and  your  coxcombs  are  always  agreeable. 
I  supped  last  night  with  Rickman,  and  met  a  merry 
natural  captain,  who  pleases  himself  vastly  with  once 
having  made  a  Pun  at  Otaheite  in  the  O.  language.  Tis 
the  same  man  who  said  Shakspeare  he  liked,  because 
he  was  so  much  of  the  Gentleman.  Rickman  is  a  man 
"  absolute  in  all  numbers."  I  think  I  may  one  day  bring 
you  acquainted,  if  you  do  not  go  to  Tartary  first ;  for 
you'll  never  come  back.  Have  a  care,  my  dear  friend, 
of  Anthropophagi !  their  stomachs  are  always  craving. 
But  if  you  do  go  among  [them]  pray  contrive  to  stink  as 
soon  as  you  can  that  you  may  [?  not]  hang  a  [?  on]  hand 
at  the  Butcher's.  'Tis  terrible  to  be  weighed  out  for  5d. 
a-pound.  To  sit  at  table  (the  reverse  of  fishes  in  Holland), 
not  as  a  guest,  but  as  a  meat. 

God  bless  you  :  do  come  to  England.  Air  and  exercise 
may  do  great  things.  Talk  with  some  Minister.  Why 
not  your  father? 

God  dispose  all  for  the  best.  I  have  discharged  my 
duty.  —  Your  sincere  frd,  C.  LAMB 


The  "  Crismiss  "  Dinner 
W.  M.  Thackeray  thanks  a  friend  for  two  geese        <^y 

(Now  for  the  first  time  published) 

36  ONSLOW  SQUARE,  December  27,  18 — 

DEAR  CARTER,  —  I  should  be  an  ungrateful  wretch 
if  I  didn't  tell  you  that  the  geese  were  excellent. 
The  servants  polished  theirs  entirely  off;  and  ours  was 
admired  and  appreciated  by  everybody  who  partook 
thereof.  I  carved  it,  and  I  need  not  say  some  of  the 
best  slices  of  the  bosom  were  appropriated  to  yours 
gratefully,  W.  M.  THACKERAY 

\Here  a  drawing  of  geese  on  a  common] 
HYMN  THE  FIRST 

The  housewives  of  a  former  age 
Were  wont  to  stuff  a  Goose  with  sage. 
You  put  the  Bird  to  nobler  use, 
Carter !  and  stuff  a  Sage  with  goose. 

HYMN  THE  SECOND 

"  Lawk,  Miss  Anny,  Lawk,  Miss  Minny !  "  thus  cries  Gray  the  cook, 
"  Two  such  beautiful  geese  is  come !     Only  come  and  look ! 

"  Lor,  how  plump  and  brown  they'll  be !     Lor,   how  plump  and 

juicy ! 
Well,  of  hall  things  I  declare  I  do  love  a  goosey ! 

"  Two  fat  geese,  how  genteel !     Only  think  of  this,  miss ! 
Don't  they  come  convenient  for  the  dinner  at  Crismiss ! 

"  One  shall  be  for  the  Servants'  'All,  and  one  for  parlour  arter, 
And   I   never  shall  see  a  goose  again,  without  thinking  of  Mr. 
Carter." 

1 88 


A  Sporting  Offer 


"That   I   won't,"  says  Mrs.    Gray   the  cook,  with  her  duty,  and 

the  best  compliments  of  the  season. 
And  the  same  she  hopes  nex  year. 


[Here  a  boy  standing'  on  his  head,  with  "  Turn  over" 
written  beneath"} 

On    second   thoughts,   and    in    allusion   to    a    painful 
transaction  last  year: 

No,  this  pun  is  so  dreadfully  bad, 

I  think  I  never  can,  'sir, 
But  when  a  man  sends  me 

A    goose  and  a  deuced  kind  letter,  I  think  I   might  send  him 
an  anser. 

Well,  I  will  next  year,  that's  all  I  have  to  say. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson   offers   to    exchange  bodies 
with  Cosmo  Monkhouse          ^>         -^          ^> 

LA  SOLITUDE,  HYERES,  April  24,  1884 

DEAR  MONKHOUSE,— If  you  are  in  love  with 
repose,  here  is  your  occasion :  change  with  me. 
I  am  too  blind  to  read,  hence  no  reading;  I  am  too 
weak  to  walk,  hence  no  walking ;  I  am  not  allowed  to 
speak,  hence  no  talking ;  but  the  great  simplification 
has  yet  to  be  named ;  for,  if  this  goes  on,  I  shall  soon 
have  nothing  to  eat  —  and  hence,  O  Hallelujah!  hence 
no  eating.  The  offer  is  a  fair  one :  I  have  not  sold 
myself  to  the  devil,  for  I  could  never  find  him.  I  am 
married,  but  so  are  you.  I  sometimes  write  verses,  but 
so  do  you!  Come!  Hie  quies!  As  for  the  command- 
ments, I  have  broken  them  so  small  that  they  are  the 
189 


Well-mannered  Remorses 

dust  of  my  chambers ;  you  walk  upon  them,  triturate 
and  toothless ;  and  with  the  Golosh  of  Philosophy,  they 
shall  not  bite  your  heel.  True,  the  tenement  is  falling. 
Ay,  friend,  but  yours  also.  Take  a  larger  view ;  what 
is  a  year  or  two  ?  dust  in  the  balance  !  'Tis  done,  behold 
you  Cosmo  Stevenson,  and  me  R.  L.  Monkhouse ;  you 
at  Hyeres,  I  in  London ;  you  rejoicing  in  the  clam- 
miest repose,  me  proceeding  to  tear  your  tabernacle 
into  rags,  as  I  have  already  so  admirably  torn  my 
own. 

My  place  to  which  I  now  introduce  you  —  it  is  yours  — 
is  like  a  London  house,  high  and  very  narrow ;  upon  the 
lungs  I  will  not  linger;  the  heart  is  large  enough  for  a 
ballroom ;  the  belly  greedy  and  inefficient ;  the  brain 
stocked  with  the  most  damnable  explosives,  like  a  dyna- 
miter's den.  The  whole  place  is  well  furnished,  though 
not  in  a  very  pure  taste ;  Corinthian  much  of  it ;  showy 
and  not  strong. 

About  your  place  I  shall  try  to  find  my  way  alone,  an 
interesting  exploration.  Imagine  me,  as  I  go  to  bed, 
falling  over  a  blood-stained  remorse ;  opening  that  cup- 
board in  the  cerebellum  and  being  welcomed  by  the 
spirit  of  your  murdered  uncle.  I  should  probably  not 
like  your  remorses ;  I  wonder  if  you  will  like  mine ; 
I  have  a  spirited  assortment ;  they  whistle  in  my  ear 
o'  nights  like  a  north-easter.  I  trust  yours  don't  dine 
with  the  family ;  mine  are  better  mannered ;  you  will 
hear  nought  of  them  till  2  a.m.,  except  one,  to  be  sure, 
that  I  have  made  a  pet  of,  but  he  is  small ;  I  keep  him 
in  buttons,  so  as  to  avoid  commentaries ;  you  will  like 
him  much  —  if  you  like  what  is  genuine. 

Must  we  likewise  change  religions?  Mine  is  a  good 
article,  with  a  trick  of  stopping ;  cathedral  bell  note ; 
ornamental  dial;  supported  by  Venus  and  the  Graces; 
190 


The  Pigtail 


quite  a  summer-parlour  piety.     Of  yours,  since  your  last, 
I  fear  there  is  little  to  be  said. 

There  is  one  article  I  wish  to  take  away  with  me :  my 
spirits.  They  suit  me.  I  don't  want  yours ;  I  like  my 
own;  I  have  had  them  a  long  while  in  bottle.  It  is 
my  only  reservation.  —  Yours  (as  you  decide), 

R.  L.  MONKHOUSE 


An  able-bodied  seaman  asks  his  brother  to  be  sure  to 
get  him  a  creature  comfort       ^>        ^>        ^> 

Warren  Hastings 

EAST  INDIANMAN,  OFF  GRAVESEND 
March  24 

DEAR  BRO1  TOM,  —  This  cums  hopein  to  find  you 
in  good  helth  as  it  leaves  me  safe  ankord  here 
yesterday  at  4  p.m.,  arter  a  plesent  vyage  tolerable  short 
and  few  squalls.  Dear  Tom,  hopes  to  find  poor  old 
father  stout.  Am  quite  out  of  pigtail.  Sights  of  pigtail 
at  Gravesend  but  unfortinly  not  fit  for  a  dogtochor. 
Dear  Tom,  Captains  boy  will  bring  you  this  and  put 
pigtail  in  his  pocket  when  bort.  Best  in  London  at  the 
black  boy  7  diles  where  go,  ax  for  best  pigtail,  pound  a 
pigtail  will  do.  And  am  short  of  shirts.  Dear  Tom,  as 
for  shirts  onley  took  2,  whereof  i  is  quite  wore  out  and 
tother  most,  but  don't  forget  the  pigtail  as  I  arnt  had 
here  a  quid  to  chor  never  sins  Thursday.  Dear  Tom  as 
for  the  shirts  your  size  will  do  only  longer.  I  liks  um 
long,  got  one  at  present,  best  at  Tower  hill  and  cheap, 
but  be  pertickler  to  go  to  7  diles  for  the  pigtail,  at  the 
black  boy  and  dear  Tom  ax  for  a  pound  of  best  pigtail 
and  let  it  be  good.  Captains  boy  will  put  the  pigtail  in 
his  pocket,  he  likes  pigtail  so  tie  it  up.  Dear  Tom  shall 
191 


The  Polite   Boys 

be  up  about  Monday  or  thereabouts.  Not  so  pertickler 
for  the  shirts  as  the  present  can  be  washed,  but  dont 
forget  the  pigtail  without  fail,  so  am  your  lovein  brother, 

JACK 
P.S.  —  Dont  forget  the  pigtail. 


Letter  from   a  young  gentleman  to  his  companion 
recovered  from  a  fit  of  sickness     ^>    ^>    ^> 

(From  an  old  Manual) 

IT  gives  me  the  most  sincere  pleasure  to  hear  that  my 
dear  Tommy  is    recovering    his    health   so    rapidly. 
Had  you  died  it  would  have  been  to  me  a  most  terrible 
loss ;  but  it  has  pleased  God  to  preserve  my  friend. 

I  will  take  the  first  opportunity  that  offers  to  call  and 
tell  you  how  valuable  your  life  is  to  your  sincere  friend 
and  playfellow. 

Answer 

YOUR  obliging  letter,  my  dear  Billy,  is  a  fresh  proof 
of  your  friendship  and  esteem  for  me.  I  thank 
God  I  am  now  perfectly  recovered.  I  am  in  some  doubt 
whether  I  ought  not  to  consider  my  late  illness  as  a  just 
punishment  for  my  crime  of  robbing  Mr.  Goodman's 
orchard,  breaking  his  boughs  and  spoiling  his  hedges. 
However  I  am  fully  determined  that  evermore  no  such 
complaints  shall  come  against  your  sincere  friend  and 
playfellow. 


192 


IX 

FIRST   PERSON   SINGULAR 

Thomas  Carlyle  tells  all  the  news       ^^       ^>       ^^ 

I 
(To  Dr.  Carlyle,  Naples) 

CHEYNE  Row,  CHELSEA,  LONDON,  June  17,  1834 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER,  — You  can  fancy  what  weary 
lonesome  wanderings  I  had,  through  the  dirty 
suburbs,  and  along  the  burning  streets,  under  a  fierce 
May  sun  with  east  wind ;  "  seeking  through  the  natives 
for  some  habitation  "  !  At  length  Jane  sent  me  comfort- 
able tidings  of  innumerable  difficulties  overcome;  and 
finally  (in,  I  think,  the  fourth  week)  arrived  herself; 
with  the  Furniture  all  close  following  her,  in  one  of 
Pickford's  Trade-boats.  I  carried  her  to  certain  of  the 
hopefullest  looking  houses  I  had  fallen  in  with,  and  a 
toilsome  time  we  anew  had :  however,  it  was  not  long ; 
for,  on  the  second  inspection,  this  old  Chelsea  Mansion 
pleased  very  decidedly  far  better  than  any  other  we 
could  see;  and,  the  people  also  whom  it  belongs  to 
proving  reasonable,  we  soon  struck  a  bargain,  and  in 
o  193 


Arrival  at  Cheyne  Row 

three  days  more  (precisely  this  very  week)  a  Hackney 
Coach,  loaded  to  the  roof  and  beyond  it  with  luggage 
and  live-passengers,  tumbled  us  all  down  here  about 
eleven  in  the  morning.  By  "all"  I  mean  my  Dame 
and  myself;  Bessy  Barnet,  who  had  come  the  night 
before;  and — little  Chico,  the  Canary-bird,  who  multum 
jactatus,  did  nevertheless  arrive  living  and  well  from 
Puttock,  and  even  sang  violently  all  the  way  by  sea  or 
land,  nay  struck  up  his  lilt  in  the  very  London  streets 
wherever  he  could  see  green  leaves  and  feel  the  free 
air.  There  then  we  sat  on  three  trunks ;  I,  however, 
with  a  matchbox  soon  lit  a  cigar,  as  Bessy  did  a  fire ; 
and  thus  with  a  kind  and  cheerful  solemnity  we  took 
possession  by  "raising  reek,"  and  even  dined,  in  an 
extempore  fashion,  on  a  box-lid  covered  with  some 
accidental  towel.  At  two  o'clock  the  Pickfords  did 
arrive;  and  then  began  the  hurly-burly;  which  even  yet 
is  but  grown  quieter,  will  not  grow  quiet,  for  a  fortnight 
to  come. 

However,  the  rooms  and  two  bedrooms  are  now  in 
a  partially  civilised  state ;  the  broken  Furniture  is  mostly 
mended ;  I  have  my  old  writing-table  again  (here)  firm 
as  Atlas ;  a  large  wainscoted  drawing-room  (which  is 
to  be  my  study)  with  the  "  red  carpet "  tightly  spread 
on  it ;  my  Books  all  safe  in  Presses ;  the  Belisarius 
Picture  right  in  front  of  me  over  the  mantelpiece  (most 
suitable  to  its  new  wainscot  lodging),  and  my  beloved 
Segretario  Ambulant e  right  behind,  with  the  two  old 
Italian  engravings,  and  others  that  I  value  less,  dis- 
persed around ;  and  so,  opposite  the  middle  of  my  three 
windows,  with  little  but  huge  Scotch  elm-trees  looking  in 
on  one,  and  in  the  distances  an  ivied  House,  and  a 
sunshiny  sky  bursting  out  from  genial  rain.  I  sit  here 
already  very  much  at  home,  and  impart  to  my  dear  and 
194 


Chelsea  in   1834 

true  brother  a  thankfulness  which  he  is  sure  to  share  in. 
We  have  indeed  very  much  reason  to  be  thankful  every 
way. 

With  the  House  we  are  all  highly  pleased,  and,  I 
think,  the  better,  the  longer  we  know  it  hitherto.  I 
know  not  if  you  ever  were  at  Chelsea,  especially  at 
Old  Chelsea,  of  which  this  is  a  portion.  It  stretches 
from  Battersea  Bridge  (a  queer  wooden  structure,  where 
they  charge  you  a  half-penny)  along  the  bank  of  the 
River,  Westward  a  little  way ;  and  Eastward  (which  is 
our  side)  some  quarter  of  a  mile,  forming  a  u Cheyne 
Walk"  (pronounced  Chainie  walk)  of  really  grand  old 
bricfr  mansions,  dating  perhaps  from  Charles  ii.'s  time 
("  Don  Saltero's  Coffeehouse  "  of  the  Toiler  is  still  fresh 
and  brisk  among  them),  with  flagged  pavement; 
carriage  way  between  two  rows  of  stubborn  looking  high 
old  pollarded  trees ;  and  then  the  river  with  its  varied 
small  craft,  fast  moving  or  safe-moored,  and  the  whole- 
some smell  (among  the  breezes)  of  sea  tar.  Cheyne 
Row  (or  Great  Cheyne  Row,  when  we  wish  to  be  grand) 
runs  up  at  right  angles  from  this,  has  two  twenty  Houses 
of  the  same  fashion ;  Upper  Cheyne  Row  (where  Hunt 
lives)  turning  again  at  right  angles,  some  stone-cast 
from  this  door. 

Frontwards  we  have  the  outlook  I  have  described 
already  (or  if  we  shove  out  our  head,  the  River  is  dis- 
closed some  hundred  paces  to  the  left) ;  backwards, 
from  the  ground  floor,  our  own  gardenkin  (which  I  with 
new  garden-tools  am  actively  re-trimming  every  morning), 
and,  from  all  other  floors,  nothing  but  leafy  clumps,  and 
green  fields,  and  red  high  peaked  roofs  glimmering 
through  them  :  a  most  clear,  pleasant  prospect,  in  these 
fresh  westerly  airs !  Of  London  nothing  visible  but 
Westminster  Abbey  and  the  topmost  dome  of  St.  Paul's  ; 
*95 


"  Gigmanity  "  again 

other  faint  ghosts  of  spires  (one  other  at  least)  disclose 
themselves,  as  the  smoke-clouds  shift;  but  I  have  not 
yet  made  out  what  they  are.  At  night  we  are  pure  and 
silent,  almost  as  at  Puttock ;  and  the  gas-light  shimmer 
of  the  great  Babylon  hangs  stretched  from  side  to  side 
of  our  horizon.  To  Buckingham  Gate  it  is  thirty-two 
minutes  of  my  walking  (Allan  Cunningham's  door  about 
half-way)  ;  nearly  the  very  same  to  Hyde-Park  Corner, 
to  which  latter  point  we  have  omnibuses  every  quarter 
of  an  hour  (they  say)  that  carry  you  to  the  White 
Horse  Cellar,  or  even  to  Coventry  Street  for  sixpence ; 
calling  for  you  at  the  very  threshold.  Nothing  was 
ever  so  discrepant  in  my  experience  as  the  Crai£en- 
puttock-silence  of  this  House,  and  then  the  world- 
hubbub  of  London  and  its  people  into  which  a  few 
minutes  brings  you:  I  feel  as  if  a  day  spent  between 
the  two  must  be  the  epitome  of  a  month.  .  .  . 

The  rent  is  ^35;  which  really  seems  £10  cheaper 
than  such  a  House  could  be  had  for  in  Dumfries  or 
Annan.  The  secret  is  an  old  friend,  "  Gigmanity " : 
Chelsea  is  unfashionable ;  it  is  also  reported  unhealthy. 

The  former  quality  we  rather  like  (for  our  neighbours 
are  all  polite-living  people)  ;  the  latter  we  do  not  in  the 
faintest  degree  believe  in,  remembering  that  Chelsea  was 
once  considered  the  "  London  Montpelier,"  and  knowing 
that  in  these  matters  now  as  formerly  the  Cockneys 
"know  nothing,"  only  rush  in  masses  blindly  and 
sheep-wise.  Our  worst  fault  is  the  want  of  a  good  free 
rustic  walk,  like  Kensington  Gardens,  which  are  above 
a  mile  off:  however,  we  have  the  " College"  or  Hospital 
grounds,  with  their  withered  old  pensioners ;  we  have 
open  carriage  ways,  and  lanes,  and  really  a  very  pretty 
route  to  Piccadilly  (different  from  the  omnibus  route) 
through  the  new  Grosvenor  edifices,  Eaton  Square, 

196 


Literary  Projects 

Belgrave  Place,  etc.  I  have  also  walked  to  Westminster 
Hall  by  Vauxhall,  Bridge-End,  Millbank,  etc. ;  but  the 
road  is  squalid,  confused,  dusty  and  detestable,  and 
happily  need  not  be  returned  to.  To  conclude,  we  are 
here  on  literary  classical  ground,  as  Hunt  is  continually 
ready  to  declare  and  unfold :  not  a  stone-cast  from  this 
House  Smollett  wrote  his  Count  Fathom  (the  house  is 
ruined  and  we  happily  do  not  see  it)  ;  hardly  a  stone- 
cast  off,  old  More  entertained  Erasmus :  to  say  nothing 
of  Bolingbroke  St.  John,  of  Paradise  Row  and  the  Count 
de  Grammont,  for  in  truth  we  care  almost  nothing  for 
them. 

On  the  whole  we  are  exceedingly  content  so  far;  and 
have  reason  to  be  so.  I  add  only  that  our  furniture  came 
with  wonderfully  little  breakage,  and  for  less  than  ^20, 
Annan  included ;  that  Jane  sold  all  her  odd  things  to 
Nanny  Macqueen  on  really  fair  terms  ;  and  that  we  find 
new  furniture  of  all  sorts  exceedingly  cheap  here,  and 
have  already  got  what  we  need,  or  nearly  so,  for  less  than 
our  own  old  good  brought  us  on  the  spot.  .  .  . 

There  is  now  a  word  to  be  said  on  Economics,  and  the 
Commissariat  Department.  .Book  selling  is  still  at  its 
lowest  ebb ;  yet  on  the  whole  better  than  I  expected  to 
find  it.  Fraser  is  the  only  craftsman  I  have  yet  seen : 
he  talks  still  of  loss  by  his  magazine;  and  I  think  will 
not  willingly  employ  me  much,  were  I  never  so  ready,  at 
the  old  rate  of  writing.  He  seems  a  well-intentioned 
creature ;  I  can  really  pity  him  in  the  place  he  occupies. 

I  went  yesterday  with  a  project  of  a  series  of  articles 
on  French  Revolutionary  matters,  chiefly  to  be  trans- 
lated from  Memoirs :  but  he  could  not  take  them,  at  my 
rate,  or  indeed  at  almost  any  rate;  for  he  spoke  of  £10 
a  sheet  as  quite  a  ransom.  He  has  got  my  name  (such 
as  it  is),  and  can  do  better  without  me.  However,  he 
197 


"  The   More  Gigantic  Spirit " 

will  cheerfully  print  (for  "  half-profits,"  that  is,  zero)  a 
projected  Book  of  mine  on  the  French  Revolution ;  to 
which  accordingly,  if  no  new  thing  occur,  I  shall 
probably  very  soon  with  all  my  heart  address  myself  in 
full  purpose  to  do  my  best,  and  put  my  name  to  it.  The 
Diamond  Necklace  Paper  his  Boy  got  from  me,  by  ap- 
pointment, this  morning ;  to  be  examined  whether  it  will 
make  a  Book ;  as  an  Article  I  shall  perhaps  hardly  think 
of  giving  it  to  him.  For,  you  are  to  understand,  that  the 
Radical  Review  of  Mill's,  after  seeming  to  be  quite 
abandoned,  has  now  a  far  fairer  chance  of  getting 
started :  a  Sir  W.  Moles  worth,  a  young  man  whom  I 
have  seen  at  Buller's  and  liked,  offers  to  furnish  all  the 
money  himself  (and  can  do  it,  being  very  rich),  and  to 
take  no  further  hand  in  it,  once  a  manager  that  will 
please  Mill  is  found  for  it.  Mill  is  to  be  here  to-morrow 
evening :  I  think  I  must  appoint  some  meeting  with 
Molesworth,  and  give  him  my  whole  views  of  it,  and 
express  my  readiness  to  take  a  most  hearty  hold  of  it ; 
having  the  prospect  of  right  companions ;  none  yet  but 
Mill  and  Buller,  and  such  as  we  may  further  approve  of 
and  add.  It  seems  likely  something  may  come  of  this. 
In  any  other  case,  Periodical  Authorship,  like  all  other 
forms  of  it,  seems  done  in  the  economical  sense.  I  think 
of  quite  abandoning  it ;  of  writing  my  Book ;  and  then, 
with  such  name  as  it  may  give  me,  starting  some  new 
course,  or  courses,  to  make  honest  ways  by.  A  poor 
Fanny  Wright  (whom  we  are  to  hear  to-night  in  Free- 
masons' Hall)  goes  lecturing  over  the  whole  world : 
before  eight,  I  will  engage  to  lecture  twice  as  well ; 
being,  as  Glen  once  said,  with  great  violence  to  me, 
"  the  more  gigantic  spirit  of  the  two.1' 

On  the  whole  I  fear   nothing.     There  are  funds  here 
already  to  keep  us  going  above  a  year,  independently  of 

198 


The  Postman's   Knock 

all  incomings :  before  that  we  may  have  seen  into  much, 
tried  much,  and  succeeded  somewhat. 

"God's  providence  they  cannot  hinder  thee  of":  that 
is  the  thing  I  always  repeat  to  myself,  or  know  without 
repeating.  .  .  . 

God  bless  you,  dear  Brother  !     Vale  mei  memor. 

T.  CARLYLE 

II 

(To  his  sister,  Mrs.  Aitken,  Dumfries) 

5  CHEYNE  Row,  CHELSEA,  LONDON.  July  6,  1834 

MY  DEAR  JEAN,  — Your  Letter,  which  was  the  first  I 
had  received  from  any  of  my  Friends  in  Scotland, 
proved  one  of  the  welcomest  I  ever  got.  The  Postman's 
two  knocks  (for  all  Postmen  give  two  smart  thumps 
which  are  known  here  and  elsewhere  as  the  "Postman's 
knock")  brought  me  it  and  the  newspaper,  and  delivered 
me  from  a  multitude  of  vague  imaginations.  Newspapers 
indeed  had  come  the  week  before,  and  persuaded  me 
that  nothing  material  was  wrong;  however,  it  was  still 
the  best  that  could  happen  to  have  it  all  confirmed  in 
black-on-white.  Tell  James  that  in  spite  of  his  critical 
penetration,  the  Letter  "could  go,1' and  did  go,  and  was 
welcomed  as  few  are. 

Whatever  you  may  think,  it  is  not  a  "  Ten  minutes  " 
matter  with  me,  the  filling  of  a  frank  that  will  carry  an 
ounce  of  thin  writing  paper:  it  is  a  decided  business, 
which  breaks  the  head  of  a  Day  for  me ;  which  breakage, 
however,  I  am  generally  well  disposed  to  execute. 

Do  you  also  take  a  large,  even  a  /6>//^-shaped  sheet,  a 
clear  pointed  pen,  and  in  the  smallest  hand  you  can 
master,  repay  it  me.  By  no  means  must  I  want 
199 


The  Apostle  Butterworth 

Dumfriesshire  news,  especially  news  about  my  Mother. 
The  tax-loaded  Post  Office  is  still  the  most  invaluable  of 
Establishments ;  and  the  ancient  men,  that  invented 
writing,  and  made  the  voice  of  man  triumphant  over 
Space  and  Time,  were  deservedly  accounted  next  to  gods. 
I  would  have  you,  in  particular,  do  your  endeavour  by 
assiduous  practice  (there  is  no  other  method)  to  perfect 
yourself  in  that  divine  art,  the  uses  of  which  no  man 
can  calculate;  in  time,  as  I  predict,  you  will  acquire 
very  considerable  excellence. 

As  for  good  composition,  it  is  mainly  the  result  of 
good  thinking,  and  improves  with  that,  if  careful 
observation  as  you  read  attends  it :  the  Penmanship  is 
a  secondary  matter,  and  has  only  three  points  of 
perfection,  or  at  most  four,  that  I  know  of;  in  all  of 
which  one  may  advance  indefinitely  by  exertion  of  one's 
own:  that  it  be  straight  across  the  paper,  that  it  be  distinct, 
that  it  be  rapid,  —  to  which,  if  you  like,  add  that  it  be 
close,  or  much  of  it  in  a  given  space.  "These  are 
good  advices "  ?  They  are  not  mine,  but  the  Apostle 
Butterworth's  !  I  did  not  design  answering  you  so  soon 
by  a  week  or  ten  days,  as  I  said  in  Alick's  Letter;  but 
there  has  come  a  sheet  from  Naples,  which  I  was 
beginning  to  be  very  impatient  for,  and  I  would  not  keep 
it  back  an  instant  from  my  Mother,  whose  impatience 
probably  is  still  greater.  She  has  already  got  hint  of  it 
in  the  last  Examiner,  and  also  that  it  is  coming  by  the 
fore-lock,  and  hope  I  shall  not  miss  the  day  again,  as  I 
fear  was  done  in  the  Catlinns  case,  after  all  my  exertions : 
as  for  you,  make  up  the  Parcel  again  instantly  for  Jar- 
dine  and  Scotsbrig,  or  there  will  be  no  forgiveness  for  you. 

As  you  have  doubtless  seen  or  will  see  the  copious 
despatches  I  have  sent  to  Annandale  about  our  House- 
hold Establishment,  wherein  nothing  from  the  very 
200 


Vehicles  and  Faces 

watering-pan  and  marigold  flowers  upwards  is  forgotten, 
I  need  not  dilate  farther  on  that  topic.  We  have  at 
length  all  but  got  the  last  struggles  of  the  upholsterer 
squadron  handsomely  conducted  out  of  doors,  with  far 
less  damage  than  might  have  been  apprehended;  and 
sit  quietly  in  a  Dwelling-place  really  much  beyond  what 
could  have  been  anticipated ;  where,  if  Providence  but 
grant  us  grace  not  to  be  wanting  to  ourselves,  the  rest 
may  pass  quite  uncriticised.  We  have  not  yet  ceased  to 
admire  the  union  of  quietness  and  freshness  of  air,  and 
the  outlook  into  green  trees  (Plum  trees,  walnuts,  even 
mulberries,  they  say),  with  the  close  neighbourhood  of 
the  noisiest  Babylon  that  ever  raged  and  fumed  (with 
coal  smoke)  on  the  face  of  this  Planet.  I  can  alternate 
between  the  one  and  the  other  in  half  an  hour  !  The 
London  streets  themselves  are  quite  a'  peculiar  object, 
and  I  daresay  of  almost  inexhaustible  significance. 
There  is  such  a  torrent  of  vehicles  and  faces:  the 
slow-rolling,  all-defying  waggon,  like  a  mountain  in 
motion,  the  dejected  Hackney-Coach,  that  "  has  seen 
better  days,"  but  goes  along  as  with  a  tough  uncomplain- 
ing patience,  the  gay  equipage  with  its  light  bounding 
air,  &&&  flunkies  of  colour  hanging  behind  it ;  the  distracted 
cab  (a  thing  like  a  cradle  set  aslant  on  its  foot-end, 
where  you  sit  open  in  front  but  free  from  rain),  which 
always  some  blackguard  drives  with  the  fury  of  Jehu; 
the  huge  omnibus  (a  pointed  Corn-Kist,  of  twenty  feet 
long,  set  on  four  wheels :  no,  it  cannot  be  twenty  feet!) 
which  runs  along  all  streets  from  all  points  of  the 
compass,  as  a  sixpenny  or  shilling  stage-coach,  towards 
"  The  Bank  "  (of  England)  ;  Butchers'  and  Brewers1  and 
Bakers'  Drays :  all  these,  with  wheelbarrows,  trucks 
(hurlies),  dogcarts,  and  a  nameless  flood  of  other  sma^ 
trash,  hold  on  unweariedly  their  ever-vexed  chaotic  way. 
201 


Philosopher  at  the  Opera 

And  then  of  foot-passengers  !  From  the  King  to  the 
Beggar;  all  in  haste,  all  with  a  look  of  care  and 
endeavour;  and  as  if  there  were  really  "Deevil  a  thing 
but  one  man  oppressing  another."  To  wander  along 
and  read  all  this :  it  is  reading  one  of  the  strangest 
everlasting  Newspaper  Columns  the  eye  ever  opened  on :  a 
Newspaper  Column  of  living  Letters  (as  I  often  say),  that 
was  printed  in  ETERNITY,  and  is  here  published  only  for  a 
little  while  in  TIME,  and  will  soon  be  recalled  —  taken  out 
of  circulation  again. 

For  the  rest,  we  live  exceedingly  happy  here ;  as  yet 
visited  by  few,  and  happily  by  almost  none  that  is  not 
worth  being  visited  by.  At  any  time,  in  half  an  hour,  I 
can  have  company  enough  of  the  sort  going ;  and  scarcely 
above  once  or  twice  in  the  week  is  my  Day  taken  from  me 
by  any  intrusion.  I  am  getting  rather  stiffly  to  work 
again ;  and  once  well  at  work,  can  defy  the  whole  Powers 
of  Darkness,  and  say  in  my  heart  (as  Tom  Ker  the  mason 
did  to  Denbie  and  "  the  Marquis  "  or  some  Military  minion 
of  his)  :  "  Ye  will  go  your  length,  gentlemen  ;  my  name's 
Tom  Ker."  By  and  by,  if  all  go  right,  you  shall  see  some 
book  of  mine  with  my  name  (not  of  "  Tom  Ker  ")  on  it, 
and  the  best  I  can  do.  Pray  that  it  be  honestly  done,  let 
its  reception  be  what  it  will. 

Of  "  amusements,1'  beyond  mere  strolling,  I  take  little 
thought.  By  acquaintance  with  newspaper  people  (such 
as  Hunt)  I  fancy  we  might  procure  free  admission  to  the 
Theatres,  even  to  the  Opera,  almost  every  night :  but,  alas  ! 
what  would  it  avail  ?  I  actually  went,  one  idle  night 
before  Jane  came,  to  Covent  Garden ;  found  it  a  very 
mystery  of  stupidity  and  abomination;  and  so  tiresome 
that  I  came  away  long  before  the  end,  and  declare  that 
the  dullest  sermon  I  ever  heard  was  cheery  in  com- 
parison. 

202 


Philosopher  and  the  Fireworks 

The  night  before  last,  looking  out  from  our  (back)  Bed- 
room window  at  midnight,  I  saw  the  many-coloured 
rockets  rising  from  Vauxhall  Gardens,  and  thought  with 
myself:  "  Very  well,  gentlemen,  if  you  have  i  guinea  admis- 
sion '  to  spare  for  it ;  only,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  not  within 
a  measured  mile  of  you  !  "  —  There  are  a  few  good,  even 
noble  people  here  too ;  there  must  be  a  few ;  if  there  were 
not,  the  whole  concern  would  take  fire :  of  these  I  even 
know  some,  and  hope  to  know  more. 

But  now,  my  dear  Sister,  you  have  enough  of  London ; 
let  me  turn  a  little  northward.  I  am  much  obliged  by 
your  description  of  Mother's  settlement ;  I  can  form  a 
very  tolerable  notion  of  her  arrangement  in  the  two  well- 
known  rooms,  and  find  the  most  natural  that  could  be 
made.  I  hope,  however,  the  Clock  is  now  got  safely 
hoisted  up :  surely,  among  so  many  stout  hands,  any 
task  of  that  kind  could  not  be  difficult.  However,  where 
a  Honeymoon  is  in  progress  one  must  thole,  one  must 
thole.  I  also  like  very  well  to  hear  of  your  Jamie's  boarding 
with  our  Mother,  while  he  is  at  his  work  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. I  follow  him  across  the  fresh  fields,  daily  in 
the  morning,  to  the  Ha,  and  heartily  wish  him  a  useful 
day.  There  is  no  other  way  of  making  a  pleasant  day, 
that  I  could  ever  hear  of.  That  he  finds  employment  in 
his  honest  vocation  is  a  great  blessing,  for  which  I  trust 
you  are  thankfuL 

Tell  him  to  follow  his  vocation  honestly,  not  as  a  man- 
pleaser,  or  one  working  for  the  eye  of  man  only,  but  as  one 
forever  under  another  Eye  that  never  slumbers  or  sleeps, 
that  sees  in  secret,  and  will  reward  openly.  I  hope  and 
believe  that  this  is  his  course,  that  he  will  persevere  in  it, 
let  the  wind  of  accident  blow  fair  or  foul ;  and  so  I  can 
prophesy  all  manner  of  good  for  him. 

.  .  .  There   is  much    louder  thunder    to-day,    and   a 
203 


Advice  to  Prudence 

copious  deluge  of  rain ;  of  all  which  we  hope  to  reap  the 
benefit  to-morrow,  for  the  air  was  growing  foully  un- 
comfortable, and  oppressive  too ;  a  sour  east-wind,  amid 
the  sultriest  brick  kiln  heat,  with  dusts  enough  and 
vapours  as  we  have  them  in  these  streets  and  ways.  A 
day's  rain  washes  everything  above  ground  and  beneath 
it.  Next  morning  we  can  "  sniff  the  caller  air,"  for  it  is 
there  to  snuff.  .  .  .  This  is  a  far  larger  Letter  than  yours, 
Dame ;  and  deserves  two  in  return  for  it ;  think  of  that, 
and  of  what  you  are  to  do  in  consequence.  .  .  .  That 
Scotsbrig  residence,  I  think  with  you  and  have  always 
thought,  can  hardly  be  permanently  comfortable  for  our 
Mother ;  if  it  serve  well  for  one  year,  that  is  all  I  hope  of 
it :  then  other  outlooks  may  have  opened.  In  the  mean- 
while, Toleration,  "  the  Act  of  Mutual  Toleration ! "  One 
can  live  without  it  nowhere  on  this  earth's  surface. 
—  Remember  me  kindly  to  dear  little  Prudence.  Tell 
her  to  mind  her  seam,  and  be  considerate  and  wise,  and 
grow  daily  wiser ;  and  it  will  go  better  and  better  with 
her.  —  Jane,  whose  health  seems  better  than  of  old  and  still 
improving,  sends  her  love  to  all  of  you.  .  .  .  And  so  fare- 
well, my  dear  Sister.  Be  true  and  loving !  —  Ever  your 
affectionate  T.  CARLYLE 

III 

(To  Dr.  Carlyle,  Naples) 

5  GREAT  CHEYNE  Row,  CHELSEA 
LONDON  August  15,  1834 

MY  DEAR   BROTHER,  — How  long  it  is  since  I 
wrote    last    is    not    accurately  in  my   memory;    I 
know  only  that  your  last  Let  er  has  been  in  my  hands,  and 
indeed  in  my  Mother's  (to  whom  it  was  fortunately  sent) 
above  a  fortnight ;  and  that  my  last,  which   was  all  that 
204 


Tidings  of  Annandale 

remained  due  when  you  wrote,  must  be  fairly  digested 
by  this  time ;  so  that  now,  on  a  day  of  leisure,  another 
may  be  fitly  despatched.  The  news  of  your  welfare, 
your  Seelen-bekenntnisse,  your  trustful  brotherly  affection  : 
all  this  is  ever  one  of  the  most  solacing  items  of  my  lot. 
To  address  you  in  return,  and  impart  my  satisfaction  and 
anxieties,  with  the  assurance  of  having  them  heartily 
sympathised  in,  is  also  one  of  my  agreeablest  employ- 
ments. Would  you  were  here  again  !  But  May  is 
coming,  and  with  it  flowers.  By  God's  blessing  you 
will  be  restored  to  us ;  not  to  wander,  we  will  hope, 
any  more. 

There  came  a  Letter  from  Alick  very  shortly  after  mine 
to  you  was  sent  away.  All  is  in  the  usual  way  in  Annan- 
dale  ;  for  we  have  heard  again  only  yesterday  from  Mrs. 
Welsh,  who  had  seen  Jean  and  Jenny  at  Dumfries :  nay 
this  moment  since  I  begun  to  write,  the  Dumfries  news- 
paper arrives  with  the  mail  of  safety  on  it.  Alick  repre- 
sents our  mother  as  moving  about  a  good  deal  on  Harry, 
and  keeping  her  health  very  tolerably :  she  does  not  seem 
altogether  hefted  yet,  he  says,  at  Scotsbrig :  however,  the 
new  Daughter-in-law  seems  to  be  a  reasonable  young 
woman,  well  disposed  to  do  the  best  for  all  parties  there ; 
till  a  new  Whitsunday  at  least  there  can  nothing  go 
very  far  wrong  among  them.  Jamie  and  she,  it  would 
appear,  are  still  fond  as  turtle-doves  and  prolonging 
their  Honeymoon.  ...  As  for  Alick  himself,  he  writes 
in  the  middle  of  a  wet  abundant  hay-harvest,  and  dates 
on  the  successive  Sundays ;  he  has  signified  by  let- 
ter to  his  Cattlins  Landlord  that  unless  they  abate 
him  £20  of  the  rent,  he  cannot  keep  the  Farm  longer 
than  Whitsunday,  and  so  waits,  in  a  kind  of  con- 
fusing uncertainty,  the  slow  issue ;  forecasting  rather  that 
he  will  £0. 

205 


Longing  for  a  Hill 


I  am  sorry  for  Alick  :  he  has  a  heavy  burden  to 
bear,  and  toils  at  it  rather  impetuously  than  stead- 
fastly. There  is  much  wisely-suppressed  energy  in  him 
too ;  but  he  feels,  in  general,  that  he  is  not  in  his 
sphere ;  and  has  internally  only  an  artificial  kind  of 
composure.  .  .  . 

As  for  myself,  I  go  on  here  almost  without  adventure 
of  any  kind.  All  of  us  have  tolerable  health :  Jane 
generally  better  than  before ;  I  certainly  not  worse, 
and  run  more  in  the  ancient  accustomed  fashion. 
I  am  diligent  with  the  shower  bath ;  my  pilgrimages 
to  the  Museum  and  my  other  Town-errands  keep  me  in 
walking  enough  ;  once  or  twice  weekly,  on  an  evening, 
Jane  and  I  stroll  out  along  the  "  Bank  of  the  River,"  or 
about  "  The  College,"  and  see  white-shirted  Cockneys  in 
their  green  canoes,  or  old  Pensioners  pensively  smoking 
tobacco. 

I  long  much  for  a  .hill',  but  unhappily  there  is  no  such 
thing;  only  knolls,  and  these  with  difficulty,  are  attain- 
able. 

The  London  street  tumult  has  become  a  kind  of 
marching  music  to  me.  I  walk  along,  following  my  own 
meditations,  without  thinking  of  it.  Company  comes 
in  desirable  quantity,  not  deficient,  not  excessive,  and 
there  is  talk  enough  from  time  to  time.  I  myself, 
however,  when  I  consider  it,  find  the  whole  all  too  thin^ 
unnutritive,  unavailing,  and  that  I  am  alone  still  under 
the  high  vault.  All  London-born  men  without  exception 
seem  to  me  narrow-built,  considerably  perverted  men, 
rather  fractions  of  a  man.  Hunt,  by  nature  a  very 
clever  man,  is  one  instance;  Mill,  in  quite  another 
manner,  is  another.  These  and  others  continue  to 
come  about  me,  as  with  the  cheering  sound  of  temporary 
music,  and  are  right  welcome  so :  a  higher  co-operation 
206 


Unitarian  Fox 

will  perhaps  somewhere  else  or  sometime  hence  disclose 

itself. 

"  There  was  a  piper  had  a  Cow, 

And  he  had  nought  to  give  her ; 
He  took  his  pipes  and  play'd  a  spring, 
And  bade  the  Cow  consider!  " 

Allan  Cunningham  was  here  two  nights  ago,  very 
friendly,  very  full  of  Nithsdale  and  pleasant  Natiir- 
mensch. 

Mill  gives  me  logical  developments  of  how  men  act 
(chiefly  in  politics)  ;  Hunt  tricksy  devices,  and  crotchety 
whimsicalities  on  the  same  theme :  what  they  act  is  a 
thing  neither  of  them  much  sympathises  in,  much  seems 
to  know. 

I  sometimes  long  greatly  for  Irving,  for  the  old  Irving 
of  fifteen  years  ago:  nay  the  poor  actual  gift-of-tongues 
Irving  has  seemed  desirable  to  me;  and  I  have  actually, 
as  you  shall  hear,  made  my  way  through  to  him  again. 

We  dined  with  Mrs.  (Platonica)  Taylor  and  the 
Unitarian  Fox  (of  the  Repository,  if  you  know  it),  one 
day:  Mill  also  was  of  the  party,  and  the  Husband,  an 
obtuse  most  joyous-natured  man,  the  pink  of  Social 
hospitality.  Fox  is  a  little  thick-set  bushy-locked  man 
of  five-and-forty,  with  bright  sympathetic,  thoughtful 
eyes  (the  whole  face  reminded  me  of  y£nas  Raifs,  com- 
pressed, and  well  buttressed  out  into  broadness),  with  a 
tendency  to  pot-belly  and  snuffiness\  from  these  hints 
you  can  construe  him,  the  best  Socinian  Philosophist 
going,  but  not  a  whit  more. 

I  shall  like  well  enough  to  meet  the  man  again ;  but 
I  doubt  he  will  not  me.  .  .  .  We  walked  home  however, 
even  Jane  did,  all  the  way  from  the  Regent's  Park, 
and  felt  that  we  had  done  a  duty.  For  we,  from  the 
Socinians,  as  I  take  it,  ivird  Nichts.  Here  too  let  me 
207 


Mill's  Enthusiasm 

wind  up  the  Radical-Periodical  Editorship,  which  your 
last  letter  naturally  speculates  on.  Mill  I  seem  to  discern 
has  given  it  to  this  same  Fox  (who  has  just  quitted  his 
Preachership,  and  will,  like  myself,  be  out  of  the  world)  : 
partly  I  should  fancy  by  Mrs.  Taylor's  influence,  partly 
as  himself  thinking  him  the  safer  man.  Ebbene !  I  can 
already  picture  to  myself  the  Radical  Party  Periodical, 
and  even  prophesy  its  destiny :  with  myself  it  had  not 
been  so ;  the  only  thing  certain  would  have  been 
difficulty,  pain  and  contradiction ;  which  I  should  prob- 
ably have  undertaken:  which  I  am  far  from  breaking 
my  heart  that  I  have  missed.  I  may  mention  too  that 
Mill  is  so  taken  with  my  Diamond  Necklace,  he  in  a 
covert  way  offered  the  other  night  to  print  it  at  his  own 
expense,  if  I  would  give  it  him,  that  he  might  have 
the  pleasure  and  profit  of  reviewing  it !  Mill  likes  me 
well ;  and  on  his  embarrassed  face  when  Fox  happened 
to  be  talked  of,  I  read  both  that  Editorship  business, 
and  also  that  Mill  had  known  my  want  of  it;  which 
latter  was  all  that  I  desired  to  read.  As  you  well  say, 
disappointment  on  disappointment  only  simplifies  one's 
course ;  your  possibilities  only  become  diminished,  your 
choice  is  rendered  easier.  In  general  I  bate  no  jot 
of  confidence  in  myself  and  in  my  cause.  Nay  it  often 
seems  to  me  as  if  the  extremity  of  suffering,  if  such 
were  appointed  me,  might  bring  out  an  extremity  of 
energy  as  yet  unknown  to  myself.  God  grant  me  faith ; 
cleanness  and  peaceableness  of  heart !  I  make  no  other 
prayer. 

As  to  Literary  work  there  is  still  no  offer  made  that 
promises  to  bring  in  a  penny;  though  I  foresee  that 
probably  such  will  come,  and,  as  they  often  do,  all  in 
a  rush.  Mill  will  want  if  his  Fox  concern  go  on ;  nay 
poor  Heraud  was  here  the  other  day  endeavouring  to 
208 


Sartor's  First  Appearance 

bespeak  me  for  a  Periodical  of  his ;  for  even  he  is  to 
have  a  dud  of  a  Periodical.  Cheeriest  and  emptiest  of 
all  the  sons  of  men  !  Yet  in  his  emptiness,  as  in  that 
of  a  dried  bladder,  he  keeps  triumphantly  jingling  his 
Coleridgean  long-quavered  metaphysical  cherry-stones, 
and  even  "makes  a  kind  of  martial  music1'  for  himself 
thereby.  I  do  not  remember  that  I  ever  met  a  more 
ridiculous  —  harmless  froth-lather  of  a  creature  in  all  my 
travels.  He  lets  you  tumble  him  hither  and  thither, 
and  cut  him  in  two  as  you  like ;  but  in  the  cheer- 
fullest  way  joins  again,  and  is  brisk  froth-lather  as 
before.  One  should  surely  learn  by  him.  — The  Diamond 
Necklace,  I  should  have  told  you,  has  been  refused  by 
Moxon :  shall  I  let  Mill  print  ?  I  do  not  know,  and 
really  hardly  care.  As  to  Moxon,  I  reckon  that  we  are 
not  all  done  with  this,  but  with  all,  and  need  not  for 
the  present  come  into  contact  again.  .  .  .  [Frazer]  has 
finished  Teufelsdrockh,  paid  me  for  it  instantly  (in  all 
£82,  is.)  ;  and  got  me  58  perfect  copies  (really  readable 
pamphlets  of  107  pages,  and  all  made  up  without  break), 
which  I  was  yesterday  despatching  far  and  wide  from 
his  shop.  Some  twenty  copies  yet  remain,  which  I  am 
in  no  haste  to  dispose  of.  ...  The  Book  is  worth  little, 
now  that  I  see  it;  yet  not  worth  nothing,  and  will 
perhaps  amuse  you.  I  rejoice  heartily  in  having  done 

with  it .    My  grand  task,  as  you  already  know,  is  the 

French  Revolution ;  which,  alas,  perplexes  me  much. 
More  Books  on  it,  I  find,  are  but  a  repetition  of  those 
before  read;  I  learn  nothing  or  almost  nothing  further 
by  Books :  yet  I  am  as  far  as  possible  from  under- 
standing it. 

Bedenklichkeiten  of  all  kinds  environ  me.     To  be  true 
or  not  to  be  true  ?     There  is  the  risk.     And  then,  to 'be 
popular  or  not  to   be  popular  ?   that   too   is   a   question 
p  209 


Chelsea  Economy 

that  plays  most  complexly  into  the  other.  We  shall  see, 
we  shall  try :  Par  ma  ttte  seule !  —  Before  quitting  this 
of  Literature,  I  must  tell  you,  among  numberless  dis- 
couragements, often  most  encouraging  messages  I  have 
had.  The  first  is  from  an  unknown  Irishman  from  Cork, 
or  rather  in  Cork :  *  did  I  tell  you  of  him  before  ?  The 
second  is  from  that  American  Craigenputtock  friend  of 
ours2  from  whom  there  came  a  letter  and  Books  lately. 
Both  the  two,  in  the  most  authentic  and  credible  though 
exaggerated  manner,  cry  out  Evye  !  for  which  I  am 
heartily  obliged  to  them.  It  is  in  regard  to  Teufelsdrockh, 
and  they  both  make  their  objections  too.  The  day  of 
small  things  !  For  which,  however,  one  cannot  but  be 
thankful.  And  so  enough  of  my  endeavourings  and  my 
cares  and  little  pleasures.  My  good  Jack  has  now  as  clear 
a  view  of  [us]  all  as  in  a  single  sheet  he  could  expect. 
We  may  say  in  the  words  of  the  Sansculotte  Deputy  writing 
to  the  Convention  of  the  progress  of  right  principles : 
Tout  va  bien  id,  LE  PAIN  MANQUE!  Jane  and  I  often 
repeat  this  with  laughter.  But  in  truth  we  live  very 
cheap  here  (perhaps  not  above  ^50  a  year  dearer  than 
at  Puttock),  and  so  can  hold  out  a  long  while  independent 
of  chance.  Utter  poverty  itself  (if  I  hold  fast  by  the 
faith)  has  no  terrors  for  me,  should  it  ever  come. 

I  told  you  I  had  seen  Irving.  It  was  but  yester- 
day, in  Newman  Street,  after  four  prior  ineffectual 
attempts. 

William    Hamilton,  who  with   his    wife   was   here   on 

Saturday,   told   me    Irving   had   grown  worse  again,  and 

Mrs.  Irving  had  been  extremely  ill:    he    too   seemed  to 

think  my  Cards  had  been  withheld.     Much  grieved  with 

this  news  I  called  once  more  on  Monday :  a  new  failure. 

Yesterday  I    went  again  with  unsuppressible  indignation 

1  Father  O'Shea.  2  Emerson. 

210 


Apostolic  Sufferings 

mixed  with  my  pity.  After  some  shying  I  was  admitted  ! 
Poor  Irving  !  he  lay  there  on  a  sofa,  begged  my  pardon 
for  not  rising;  his  wife,  who  also  did  not  and  probably 
could  not  well  rise,  sat  at  his  feet,  and  watched  all  the 
time  I  was  there,  miserable,  haggard.  .  .  .  Irving  once 
lovingly  ordered  her  away :  but  she  lovingly  excused 
herself  and  sat  still.  He  complains  of  biliousness ;  of  a 
pain  at  his  right  short-rib  ;  has  a  short  thick  cough  which 
comes  on  at  the  slightest  irritation.  Poor  fellow!  I 
brought  a  short  gleam  of  old  Scottish  laughter  into  his 
face,  into  his  voice,  and  that  too  set  him  coughing.  He 
said  it  was  the  Lord's  will ;  looked  weak,  dispirited,  partly 
embarrassed.  He  continues  toiling  daily,  though  the  Doc- 
tor (Darling)  says,  rest  only  can  cure  him. 

Is  it  not  mournful ;  hyper-tragical  ?  There  are  moments 
when  I  determine  on  surging  in  upon  all  Tongue-work 
and  Martindoms  and  accursed  choking  Cobwebberies,  and 
snatching  away  my  old  best  Friend,  to  save  him  from 
Death  and  the  Grave  !  It  seems  too  likely  he  will  die 
there.  At  lowest  I  will  go  again  soon  and  often:  I  cannot 
think  of  it  with  patience. 

.  .  .  Mrs.  Welsh  was  up  at  Craigenputtock ;  it  looks 
all  very  wild,  and  made  her  greet  "not  that  we  were 
gone " :  she  had  escorted  thither  a  certain  Indian 
friend  who  has  (through  M'Diarmid)  taken  the  shooting, 
with  right  to  lodging,  for  ^10  a  year.  Old  Nanny 
M 'Queen  pays  us  other  £10  for  the  Park  and  right  of 
living  in  the  House,  with  charge  of  taking  care  of  it,  and 
admitting  any  decent  "  Gunner  body  "  of  that  kind.  Both 
sums  I  believe  will  be  faithfully  paid ;  and  old  Nanny  is 
said  to  be  the  carefullest  of  women.  .  .  .  Alas  the  paper 
is  quite  done. 

Attend  me  on  the  margins. 

I  have  not  said  a  word  about  Italy ;  for  indeed,  my 
211 


Thorwaldsen 

dear  Brother,  except  you  there  is  nothing  there  that  my 
thoughts  turn  upon ;  and  your  position  has  in  it  the  happy 
monotony  (happy  for  your  friends)  of  one  at  rest.  Well 
do  I  understand  those  meditations  of  yours,  those  goings 
forth  into  the  uttermost  shores  of  being,  those  soundings 
into  dim  depths.  Indulge  not  too  much  in  them.  For 
the  rest,  rejoice  always  that  you  have  found  footing; 
prepare  yourself  not  only  to  stand  on  it,  but  to  build  on 
it.  I  wish  you  had  some  more  decisive  occupation :  but 
such  is  not  appointed  yet  for  a  time.  Meanwhile  you 
are  not  idle,  you  are  active  as  the  scene  allows ;  many 
future  years,  I  trust,  will  be  the  better  for  this  leisure. 
Have  you  any  company  ?  Tell  me  whom.  Give  me 
descriptions  of  them,  and  "how  they  ack  i"1  the  vaarious 
pleaces"  Do  you  know  Thorwaldsen  at  Rome  per- 
sonally ? 

This  Rennie  seems  to  be  intimate  with  him,  and  to 
love  him  well.  He  has  cut  a  head  of  him,  and  has  it 
here:  the  head  of  a  man  of  energy  and  sensibility,  with 
a  nose  of  most  honest  simplicity.  Go  and  see  him,  and 
try  to  get  speech  of  him :  a  man  of  genius  is  always 
the  best  worth  conferring  with.  .  .  .  Jane,  who  is  not 
very  well  this  particular  day,  sends  you  her  sisterly  love. 
She  takes  well  with  Chelsea,  and  seems  to  be  cheerfuller 
than  she  was  wont. 

And  so,  my  dear  Brother,  here  must  I  end.  Gehab 
dich  wohl ;  left  heiter ;  lietf  mich.  May  all  good  things 
be  with  you.  —  I  must  to  Charing  Cross  where  the  Post 
is  still  open.  Felicissima  notte  !  —  Ever  your  faithful 
Brother,  T.  C. 


212 


Rogers  and  Buonaparte 

Byron  is  interested  in  Byron      <^     ^>      *^      ^> 
(To  Thomas  Moore) 

I 

September  5,  181.3 

YOU    need    not    tie    yourself   down    to    a  day  with 
Toderini,   but    send  him   at    your   leisure,   having 
anatomised    him    into    such    annotations    as   you    want ; 
I  do  not  believe  that  he  has  ever  undergone  that  process 
before,  which  is  the  best  reason  for  not  sparing  him  now. 

Rogers  has  returned  to  town,  but  not  yet  recovered  of 
the  Quarterly.  What  fellows  these  reviewers  are  !  "these 
bugs  do  fear  us  all."  They  made  you  fight,  and  me 
(the  milkiest  of  men)  a  satirist,  and  will  end  by  making 
Rogers  madder  than  Ajax.  I  have  been  reading  Memory 
again,  the  other  day,  and  Hope  together,  and  retain  all 
my  preference  of  the  former.  His  elegance  is  really 
wonderful  —  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  vulgar  line  in  his 
book. 

What  say  you  to  Buonaparte?  Remember,  I  back 
him  against  the  field,  barring  catalepsy  and  the  elements. 
Nay,  I  almost  wish  him  success  against  all  countries 
but  this,  —  were  it  only  to  choke  the  Morning  Post  or 
his  undutiful  father-in-law  with  that  rebellious  bastard  of 
Scandinavian  adoption,  Bernadotte.  Rogers  wants  me  to 
go  with  him  on  a  crusade  to  the  Lakes,  and  to  besiege 
you  on  our  way.  This  last  is  a  great  temptation,  but 
I  fear  it  will  not  be  in  my  power,  unless  you  would  go 
on  with  one  of  us  somewhere  —  no  matter  where.  It  is 
too  late  for  Matlock,  but  we  might  hit  upon  some  scheme, 
high  life,  or  low  —  the  last  would  be  much  the  best  for 
amusement.  I  am  so  sick  of  the  other,  that  I  quite  sigh 
for  a  cider-cellar,  or  a  cruise  in  a  smugglers'  sloop. 
213 


His  Lordship  at  Hastings 

You  cannot  wish  more  than  I  do  that  the  fates  were 
a  little  more  accommodating  to  our  parallel  lives,  which 
prolong  ad  infinitum,  without  coming  a  jot  nearer.  I 
almost  wish  I  were  married,  too  —  which  is  saying  much 
—  all  my  friends,  seniors  and  juniors,  are  in  for  it,  and 
ask  me  to  be  godfather,  —  the  only  species  of  parentage 
which,  I  believe,  will  ever  come  to  my  share  in  a  lawful 
way ;  and,  in  an  unlawful  one,  by  the  blessing  of  Lucina, 
we  can  never  be  certain,  —  though  the  parish  may.  I 
suppose  I  shall  hear  from  you  to-morrow ;  if  not,  this 
goes  as  it  is,  but  I  leave  room  for  a  P.S.,  in  case  anything 
requires  an  answer.  —  Ever,  etc. 

II 

HASTINGS,  August  3,  1814 

BY  the  time  this  reaches  your  dwelling,  I  shall  (God 
wot)  be  in  town  again  probably.  I  have  been  here 
renewing  my  acquaintance  with  my  old  friend  Ocean ; 
and  I  find  his  bosom  as  pleasant  a  pillow  for  an  hour  in 
the  morning  as  his  daughters  to  Paphos  could  be  in  the 
twilight.  I  have  been  swimming  and  eating  turbot, 
smuggling  neat  brandies  and  silk  handkerchiefs,  —  and 
listening  to  my  friend  Hodgson's  raptures  about  a  pretty 
wife-elect  of  his,  —  and  walking  on  cliffs  and  tumbling 
down  hills,  and  making  the  most  of  the  dolce  far  niente, 
for  the  last  fortnight.  I  met  a  son  of  Lord  Erskine's,  who 
says  he  has  been  married  a  year,  and  is  the  "  happiest  of 
men";  and  I  have  met  the  aforesaid  H.,  who  is  also  the 
"  happiest  of  men" ;  so,  it  is  worth  while  being  here,  if 
only  to  witness  the  superlative  felicity  of  these  foxes,  who 
have  cut  off  their  tails,  and  would  persuade  the  rest  to 
part  with  their  brushes  to  keep  them  in  countenance. 
It  rejoiceth  me  that  you  like  Lara.  Jeffrey  is  out 
214 


The  Shepherd's  Curse 

with  his  45th  number,  which  I  suppose  you  have  got. 
He  is  only  too  kind  to  me,  in  my  share  of  it,  and  I 
begin  to  fancy  myself  a  golden  pheasant,  upon  the 
strength  of  the  plumage  wherewith  he  hath  bedecked 
me.  But  then,  surgit  amari,  etc.  —  the  gentlemen  of 
the  Champion,  and  Perry,  have  got  hold  (I  know  not 
how)  of  the  condolatory  address  to  Lady  Jersey  on  the 
picture-abduction  by  our  Regent,  and  have  published 
them  —  with  my  name,  too,  smack  —  without  ever  asking 
leave,  or  inquiring  whether  or  no !  Damn  their  impudence, 
and  damn  every  thing.  It  has  put  me  out  of  patience, 
and  so,  I  shall  say  no  more  about  it. 

You  shall  have  Lara  and  Jacque  (both  with  some 
additions)  when  out;  but  I  am  still  demurring  and 
delaying,  and  in  a  fuss,  and  so  is  Rogers  in  his  way. 

Newstead  is  to  be  mine  again.  Claughton  forfeits 
twenty-five  thousand  pounds ;  but  that  don't  prevent  me 
from  being  very  prettily  ruined.  I  mean  to  bury  myself 
there  —  and  let  my  beard  grow  —  and  hate  you  all. 

Oh  !  I  have  had  the  most  amusing  letter  from  Hogg, 
the  Ettrick  minstrel  and  shepherd.  He  wants  me  to 
recommend  him  to  Murray ;  and,  speaking  of  his  present 
bookseller,  whose  "bills"  are  never  " lifted,"  he  adds, 
totidem  verbis,  "  God  damn  him  and  them  both."  I 
laughed,  and  so  would  you  too,  at  the  way  in  which  this 
execration  is  introduced. 

The  said  Hogg  is  a  strange  being,  but  of  great,  though 
uncouth,  powers.  I  think  very  highly  of  him,  as  a  poet ; 
but  he,  and  half  of  these  Scotch  and  Lake  troubadours, 
are  spoilt  by  living  in  little  circles  and  petty  societies. 
London  and  the  world  is  the  only  place  to  take  the 
conceit  out  of  a  man  —  in  the  milling  phrase.  Scott,  he 
says,  is  gone  to  the  Orkneys  in  a  gale  of  wind ;  —  during 
which  wind,  he  affirms,  the  said  Scott,  he  is  sure,  is 
215 


A  Glimpse  of  "  Mr.  Cypress  " 

not  at  his  ease,  —  to  say  the  least  of  "it."  Lord,  Lord, 
if  these  home-keeping  mushets  had  crossed  your  Atlantic 
or  my  Mediterranean,  and  tasted  a  little  open  boating 
in  a  white  squall  —  or  a  gale  in  "  the  Gut  "  —  or  the  "  Bay 
of  Biscay,"  with  no  gale  at  all  —  how  it  would  enliven  and 
introduce  them  to  a  few  of  the  sensations  —  to  say  nothing 
of  an  illicit  amour  or  two  upon  shore,  in  the  way  of  essay 
upon  the  Passions,  beginning  with  simple  adultery,  and 
compounding  it  as  they  went  along. 

I  have  forwarded  your  letter  to  Murray,  —  by  the  way, 
you  had  addressed  it  to  Miller.  Pray  write  to  me, 
and  say  what  art  thou  doing  ?  "  not  pushed ! "  — 
Oons  !  how  is  this  ?  —  these  "  flaws  and  starts  "  must  be 
"  authorised  by  your  grandam "  and  are  unbecoming 
of  any  other  author.  I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  dis- 
crepancy with  the  *  *  s,  or  rather  your  abjuration  of 
agreement.  I  don't  want  to  be  impertinent,  or  buffoon 
on  a  serious  subject,  and  am  therefore  at  a  loss  what  to 
say. 

I  hope  nothing  will  induce  you  to  abate  from  the 
proper  price  of  your  poem,  as  long  as  there  is  a  prospect 
of  getting  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  seriously  and 
not  whiningly  (for  that  is  not  my  way  —  at  least,  it  used 
not  to  be),  neither  hopes,  nor  prospects,  and  scarcely 
even  wishes.  I  am,  in  some  respects,  happy,  but  not  in 
a  manner  that  can  or  ought  to  last,  —  but  enough  of  that. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  I  feel  quite  enervated  and  indifferent. 
I  really  do  not  know,  if  Jupiter  were  to  offer  me  my 
choice  of  the  contents  of  his  benevolent  cask,  what  I 
would  pick  out  of  it.  If  I  was  born,  as  the  nurses  say, 
with  a  "silver  spoon  in  my  mouth,"  it  has  stuck  in  my 
throat,  and  spoiled  my  palate,  so  that  nothing  put  into 
it  is  swallowed  with  much  relish,  — unless  it  be  cayenne. 

However,  I  have  grievances  enough  to  occupy  me  that 
216 


A  Prophet's  Boast 

way  too ;  but  for  fear  of  adding  to  yours  by  this  pestilent 
long  diatribe,  I  postpone  the  reading  of  them,  sine  die. 
Ever,  dear  M.,  yours,  etc. 

P.S.  —  Don't  forget  my  Godson.  You  could  not  have 
fixed  on  a  fitter  porter  for  his  sins  than  me,  being  used 
to  carry  double  without  inconvenience.  .  .  . 


William  Blake  utters  a  manifesto        ^^       *^-       *Cy 

(To  Thomas  Butts) 

FELPHAM,  November  22,  1802 

DEAR  SIR,  — My  brother  tells  me  that  he  fears  you 
are  offended  with  me.  I  fear  so  too,  because  there 
appears  some  reason  why  you  might  be  so ;  but  when 
you  have  heard  me  out,  you  will  not  be  so. 

I  have  now  given  two  years  to  the  intense  study  of 
those  parts  of  the  art  which  relate  to  light  and  shade  and 
colour,  and  am  convinced  that  either  my  understanding 
is  incapable  of  comprehending  the  beauties  of  colouring, 
or  the  pictures  which  I  painted  for  you  are  equal  in 
every  part  of  the  art,  and  superior  in  one,  to  anything 
that  has  been  done  since  the  age  of  Raphael. 

All  Sir  J.  Reynolds'  Discourses  to  the  Royal  Academy 
will  show  that  the  Venetian  finesse  in  art  can  never 
be  united  with  the  majesty  of  colouring  necessary  to 
historical  beauty ;  and  in  a  letter  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Gilpin, 
author  of  a  work  on  picturesque  scenery,  he  says  thus  : 

"It  may  be  worth  consideration  whether  the  epithet 
picturesque  is  not  applicable  to  the  excellences  of  the 
inferior  schools  rather  than  to  the  higher." 

"  The  works  of  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  etc.,  appear 
217 


Confidence  of  Genius 

to  me  to  have  nothing  of  it;  whereas  Rubens  and  the 
Venetian  painters  may  almost  be  said  to  have  nothing 
else." 

"  Perhaps  picturesque  is  somewhat  synonymous  to  the 
word  taste,  which  we  should  think  improperly  applied  to 
Homer  or  Milton,  but  very  well  to  Prior  or  Pope.  I 
suspect  that  the  application  of  these  words  is  to  excel- 
lences of  an  inferior  order,  and  which  are  incompatible 
with  the  grand  style.  You  are  certainly  right  in  saying 
that  variety  of  tints  and  forms  is  picturesque;  but  it 
must  be  remembered,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  reverse 
of  this  (uniformity  of  colour  and  a  long  continuation  of 
lines)  produces  grandeur." 

So  says  Sir  Joshua,  and  so  say  I ;  for  I  have  now 
proved  that  the  parts  of  the  art  which  I  neglected  to 
display,  in  those  little  pictures  and  drawings  which  I  had 
the  pleasure  and  profit  to  do  for  you,  are  incompatible 
with  the  designs. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  art  which  our  painters  do  that 
I  can  confess  myself  ignorant  of.  I  also  know  and 
understand,  and  can  assuredly  affirm,  that  the  works  I 
have  done  for  you  are  equal  to  the  Caracci  or  Raphael 
(and  I  am  now  some  years  older  than  Raphael  was  when 
he  died).  I  say  they  are  equal  to  Caracci  or  Raphael, 
or  else  I  am  blind,  stupid,  ignorant,  and  incapable,  in 
two  years'  study,  to  understand  those  things  which  a 
boarding-school  miss  can  comprehend  in  a  fortnight.  Be 
assured,  my  dear  friend,  that  there  is  not  one  touch  in 
those  drawings  and  pictures  but  what  came  from  my 
head  and  my  heart  in  unison ;  that  I  am  'proud  of  being 
their  author,  and  grateful  to  you  my  employer ;  and  that 
I  look  upon  you  as  the  chief  of  my  friends,  whom  I 
would  endeavour  to  please,  because  you,  among  all  men, 
have  enabled  me  to  produce  these  things.  I  would  not 
218 


Still  more  Confidence 

send  you  a  drawing  or  a  picture  till  I  had  again  re- 
considered my  notions  of  art,  and  had  put  myself  back 
as  if  I  was  a  learner. 

I  have  proved  that  I  am  right,  and  shall  now  go  on 
with  the  vigour  I  was,  in  my  childhood,  famous  for.  But 
I  do  not  pretend  to  be  perfect :  yet,  if  my  works  have 
faults,  Caracci's,  Correggio's,  and  Raphael's  have  faults 
also. 

Let  me  observe  that  the  yellow-leather  flesh  of  old 
men,  the  ill-drawn  and  ugly  old  women,  and,  above  all, 
the  daubed  black-and-yellow  shadows  that  are  found  in 
most  fine,  ay,  and  the  finest  pictures,  I  altogether  reject 
as  ruinous  to  effect,  though  connoisseurs  may  think 
otherwise. 

Let  me  also  notice  that  Caracci's  pictures  are  not  like 
Correggio's,  nor  Correggio's  like  Raphael's  ;  and,  if  neither 
of  them  was  to  be  encouraged  till  he  did  like  any  of  the 
others,  he  must  die  without  encouragement.  My  pictures 
are  unlike  any  of  these  painters,  and  I  would  have  them 
to  be  so.  I  think  the  manner  I  adopt  more  perfect  than 
any  other.  No  doubt  they  thought  the  same  of  theirs. 
You  will  be  tempted  to  think  that,  as  I  improve,  the 
pictures,  etc.,  that  I  did  for  you  are  not  what  I  would 
now  wish  them  to  be. 

On  this  I  beg  to  say  that  they  are  what  I  intended 
them,  and  that  I  know  I  never  shall  do  better;  for,  if 
I  were  to  do  them  over  again,  they  would  lose  as  much 
as  they  gained,  because  they  were  done  in  the  heat  of 
my  spirits. 

But  you  will  justly  inquire  why  I  have  not  written  all 
this  time  to  you.  I  answer  I  have  been  very  unhappy, 
and  could  not  think  of  troubling  you  about  it,  or  any  of 
my  real  friends.  (I  have  written  many  letters  to  you 
which  I  burned  and  did  not  send.)  And  why  I  have  not 
219 


"  Among  the  Stars  of  God " 

before  now  finished  the  miniature  I  promised  to  Mrs. 
Butts,  I  answer  I  have  not,  till  now,  in  any  degree 
pleased  myself,  and  now  1  must  entreat  you  to  excuse 
faults,  for  portrait-painting  is  the  direct  contrary  to 
designing  and  historical  painting,  in  every  respect. 

If  you  have  not  nature  before  you  for  every  touch, 
you  cannot  paint  portrait ;  and  if  you  have  nature  before 
you  at  all,  you  cannot  paint  history.  It  was  Michael 
Angelo's  opinion,  and  is  mine. 

Pray  give  my  wife's  love  with  mine  to  Mrs.  Butts. 
Assure  her  that  it  cannot  be  long  before  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  painting  from  you  in  person,  and  then  she 
may  expect  a  likeness.  But  now  I  have  done  all  I  could, 
and  know  she  will  forgive  any  failure  in  consideration 
of  the  endeavour. 

And  now  let  me  finish  with  assuring  you  that,  though 
I  have  been  very  unhappy,  I  am  so  no  longer.  I  am 
again  emerged  into  the  light  of  day ;  I  still  and  shall  to 
eternity  embrace  Christianity,  and  adore  Him  who  is  the 
express  image  of  God ;  but  I  have  travelled  through 
perils  and  darkness  not  unlike  a  champion.  I  have 
conquered,  and  shall  go  on  conquering.  Nothing  can 
withstand  the  fury  of  my  course  among  the  stars  of  God 
and  in  the  abysses  of  the  accuser. 

My  enthusiasm  is  still  what  it  was,  only  enlarged  and 
confirmed. 

I  now  send  two  pictures,  and  hope  you  will  approve 
of  them. 

I  have  enclosed  the  account  of  money  received  and 
work  done,  which  I  ought  long  ago  to  have  sent  you. 
Pray  forgive  errors  in  omissions  of  this  kind.  I  am 
incapable  of  many  attentions  which  it  is  my  duty  to 
observe  towards  you,  through  multitude  of  employment, 
and  through  hope  of  soon  seeing  you  again.  I  often 
220 


The  Prophet's  Barometer 

omit  to  inquire  of  you,  but  pray  let  me  now  hear  how  you 
do,  and  of  the  welfare  of  your  family. 

Accept  my  sincere  love  and  respect.  —  I  remain  yours 
sincerely, 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 

A  piece  of  seaweed  serves  for  barometer,  and  gets  wet 
and  dry  as  the  weather  gets  so. 


Epistolary  Sententice      *^x       ^^       *o       *o       "Qy 

MY    chief  philosophy  has   always    been    to   do   only 
what   I   deem   pleasant.     This   is   why  I  write   to 
you.  A.  HOUSSAYE  (to  a  lady) 

OPINIONS  is  a  species  of  property  that  I  am  always  desirous 
of  sharing  with  my  friends. 

CHARLES  LAMB 

IT  is  not  always  the  giver  who  gives ;  it  is  not  always 
the  receiver  who  receives. 

MALAY  PROVERB 

IT  is  a  frail  memory  that  remembers  but  present  things. 

BEN  JONSON 

WHEN  I  began  this  letter  I  thought  I  had  something  to 
say :  but  I  believe  the  truth  was  I  had  nothing  to  do. 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

LET  us  write  oftener,  and  longer ;  and  we  shall  not  tempt 
the  Fates  by  inchoating  too  long  a  hope  of  letter-paper. 

IBID 
221 


Epistolary  Sententi* 


A  VERY  good  companion,  a  charitable  man,  and  a  friend 
to  those  that  were  good,  and  had  a  face  like  any  blessing. 

CERVANTES 

THIS,  too,  is  in  our  memories  for  ever  —  an  addition  to 
our  stock  —  a  light  for  memory  to  turn  to  when  it  wishes 
a  beam  upon  its  face. 

LEIGH  HUNT 

A  THANKFUL  man  owes  a  courtesie  ever :  the  unthankful 
but  when  he  needs  it. 

BEN  JONSON 

I  LIVE  between  the  folds  of  a  sheet  of  paper. 

EUGENIE  DE  GUERIN 


222 


X 

LITERATURE   AND   ART 

Haydon,  Keats,  and  Shakespeare      *^        ^^       5^ 

March  1818 

MY  DEAR   KEATS,  — I  shall  go  mad!     In  a  field 
at   Stratford-upon-Avon,  that  belonged  to  Shake- 
speare, they  have   found  a  gold   ring  and  seal,  with  the 
initials  W.  S.  and  a  true   lover's  knot  between.     If  this 
is  not  Shakespeare,  who  is  it  ?  —  A  true  lover's  knot !     I 
saw  an  impression  to-day,  and  am  to  have  one  as  soon 
as  possible :  as   sure  as   that  you  breathe,  and   that   he 
was  the  first  of  beings,  the  seal  belonged  to  him. 
O  Lord !  B.  R.  HAYDON 

TEIGNMOUTH,  Sunday  Morning 

MY  DEAR  HAYDON,  — In  sooth  I  hope  you  are 
not  too  sanguine  about  that  seal,  in  sooth  I  hope, 
it  is  not  Brummagem,  in  double  sooth  I  hope  it  is  his, 
and  in  triple  sooth  I  hope  I  shall  have  an  impression. 
Such  a  piece  of  intelligence  came  doubly  welcome  to  me 
while  in  your  own  county  and  in  your  own  hand,  not  but 
what  I  have  blown  up  the  said  county  for  its  watery 
qualifications. 

223 


"To  Vex  the  World" 

The  first  six  days  I  was  here  it  did  nothing  but  rain, 
and  at  that  time  having  to  write  to  a  friend,  I  gave 
Devonshire  a  good  blowing  up ;  it  has  been  fine  for 
almost  three  days,  and  I  was  coming  round  a  bit,  but 
to-day  it  rains  again. 

With  me  the  county  is  on  its  good  behaviour.  I  have 
enjoyed  the  most  delightful  walks  these  three  fine  days, 
beautiful  enough  to  make  me  content. 

The  Dean  gives  Mr.  Pope  news  of  Gulliver  and  himself 

September  29,  1725 

I  AM  now  returning  to  the  noble  scene  of  Dublin,  into 
the  grand  monde,  for  fear  of  burying  my  parts,  to 
signalise  myself  among  curates  and  vicars,  and  correct 
all  corruptions  crept  in  relating  to  the  weight  of  bread 
and  butter,  through  those  dominions  where  I  govern. 

I  have  employed  my  time  (besides  ditching)  in  finish- 
ing, correcting,  amending,  and  transcribing  my  Travels 
{Gulliver 'j),  in  four  parts  complete,  newly  augmented 
and  intended  for  the  press  when  the  world  shall  deserve 
them,  or  rather  when  a  printer  shall  be  found  brave 
enough  to  venture  his  ears.  I  like  the  scheme  of  our 
meeting  after  distresses  and  dispersions. 

But  the  chief  end  I  propose  to  myself  in  all  my 
labours,  is  to  vex  the  world,  rather  than  divert  it;  and 
if  I  could  compass  that  design  without  hurting  my  own 
person  or  fortune,  I  would  be  the  most  indefatigable 
writer  you  have  ever  seen  without  reading.  I  am  ex- 
ceedingly pleased  that  you  have  done  with  translations. 
Lord  Treasurer  Oxford  often  lamented  that  a  rascally 
world  should  lay  you  under  a  necessity  of  misemploying 
your  genius  for  so  long  a  time.  But  since  you  will  now 
224 


Misanthrope  but  Friend 

be  so  much  better  employed,  when  you  think  of  the 
world,  give  it  one  lash  the  more  at  my  request. 

I  have  ever  hated  all  nations,  professions,  and  com- 
munities ;  and  all  my  love  is  towards  individuals. 

For  instance,  I  hate  the  tribe  of  lawyers;  but  I  love 
Counsellor  Such-a-one,  and  Judge  Such-a-one. 

It  is  so  with  physicians.  I  will  not  speak  of  my  own 
trade,  soldiers,  English,  Scotch,  French,  and  the  rest. 

But  principally  I  hate  and  detest  that  animal  called 
man,  although  I  heartily  love  John,  Peter,  Thomas,  and 
so  forth.  This  is  the  system  upon  which  I  have  governed 
myself  many  years  (but  do  not  tell),  and  so  I  shall  go 
on  until  I  have  done  with  them. 

I  have  got  materials  toward  a  treatise  proving  the 
falsity  of  that  definition  animal  rationale,  and  to  show 
it  should  be  only  rationis  capax.  Upon  this  great  foun- 
dation of  misanthropy  (though  not  in  Timon's  manner) 
the  whole  building  of  my  travels  is  erected ;  and  I  never 
will  have  peace  of  mind  till  all  honest  men  are  of  my 
opinion. 

By  consequence  you  are  to  embrace  it  immediately, 
and  procure  that  all  who  deserve  my  esteem  may  do 
so  too. 

The  matter  is  so  clear,  that  it  will  admit  of  no  dispute ; 
nay,  I  will  hold  a  hundred  pounds  that  you  and  I  agree 
in  the  point.  I  did  not  know  your  Odyssey  was  finished, 
being  yet  in  the  country,  which  I  shall  leave  in  three 
days. 

I  thank  you  kindly  for  the  present,  but  shall  like  it 
three-fourths  the  less  for  the  mixture  you  mention  of 
other  hands ;  however,  I  am  glad  you  saved  yourself  so 
much  drudgery.  I  have  been  long  told  by  Mr.  Ford 
of  your  great  achievements  in  building  and  planting, 
and  especially  of  your  subterranean  passage  to  your 
Q  225 


Arbuthnot's  One  Fault 

garden,  whereby  you  turned  a  blunder  into  a  beauty, 
which  is  a  piece  of  Ars  Poetica.  I  have  almost  done  with 
Harridans,  and  shall  soon  become  old  enough  to  fall  in 
love  with  girls  of  fourteen. 

The  lady  whom  you  describe  to  live  at  court,  to  be 
deaf  and  no  party  woman,  I  take  to  be  mythology,  but 
I  know  not  how  to  moralise  it. 

She  cannot  be  Mercy,  for  Mercy  is  neither  deaf  nor 
lives  at  court ;  Justice  is  blind,  and  perhaps  deaf,  but 
neither  is  she  a  court-lady;  Fortune  is  both  blind  and 
deaf,  and  a  court-lady ;  but  then  she  is  a  most  damnable 
party  woman,  and  will  never  make  me  easy  as  you 
promise. 

It  must  be  riches,  which  answers  all  your  description. 
I  am  glad  she  visits  you ;  but  my  voice  is  so  weak,  that 
I  doubt  she  will  never  hear  me. 

Mr.  Lewis  sent  me  an  account  of  Dr.  Arbuthnot's 
illness,  which  is  a  very  sensible  affliction  to  me,  who, 
by  living  so  long  out  of  the  world,  have  lost  that  hard- 
ness of  heart  contracted  by  years  and  general  conversa- 
tion. I  am  daily  losing  friends,  and  neither  seeking  nor 
getting  others. 

Oh,  if  the  world  had  but  a  dozen  of  Arbuthnots  in 
it,  I  would  burn  my  Travels  \  But,  however,  he  is  not 
without  fault. 

There  is  a  passage  in  Bede,  highly  commending  the 
piety  and  learning  of  the  Irish  in  that  age,  where,  after 
abundance  of  praises,  he  overthrows  them  all,  by  lament- 
ing that,  alas  !  they  kept  Easter  at  a  wrong  time  of  the 
year.  So  our  Doctor  has  every  quality  and  virtue  that 
can  make  a  man  amiable  or  useful ;  but,  alas,  he  hath 
a  sort  of  slouch  in  his  walk  !  I  pray  God  protect  him, 
for  he  is  an  excellent  Christian,  though  not  a  Catholic. 

I  hear  nothing  of  my  friend  Gay ;  but  I  find  the  court 
226 


Little  Flams  on  Miss  Carteret 

keeps  him  at  hard  meat.  I  advised  him  to  come  over 
here  with  a  Lord-Lieutenant.  Phillips  writes  little  flams 
(as  Lord  Leicester  called  those  sort  of  verses)  on  Miss 
Carteret. 

A  Dublin  blacksmith,  a  great  poet,  hath  imitated  his 
manner  in  a  poem  to  the  same  Miss. 

Phillips  is  a  complainer;  and  on  this  occasion  I  told 
Lord  Carteret,  that  complainers  never  succeeded  at 
court,  though  railers  do. 

Are  you  altogether  a  country  gentleman,  that  I  must 
address  you  out  of  London,  to  the  hazard  of  your  losing 
this  precious  letter,  which  I  will  now  conclude,  although 
so  much  paper  is  left  ?  I  have  an  ill  name  and  therefore 
shall  not  subscribe  it ;  but  you  will  guess  it  comes  from 
one  who  esteems  and  loves  you  about  half  as  much  as 
you  deserve,  I  mean  as  much  as  he  can.  I  am  in 
great  concern,  at  what  I  am  just  told  is  in  some  of  the 
newspapers,  that  Lord  Bolingbroke  is  much  hurt  by  a 
fall  in  hunting.  I  am  glad  he  has  so  much  youth  and 
vigour  left  (of  which  he  hath  not  been  thrifty)  ;  but  I 
wonder  he  has  no  more  discretion. 

Miss  Edgeworth  visits  Sir  Walter  in  Edinburgh    ^> 
(To  Mrs.  Ruxton) 

EDINBURGH,  32  ABERCROMBY  PLACE 
June  8,  1823 

YOU  have  had  our  history  up  to  Kinneil  House.     Mr. 
and    Miss    Stewart    accompanied  us    some    miles 
on  our  road  to  show  us  the  palace  of  Linlithgow  —  very 
interesting  to  see,  but  not  to  describe.     The  drive  from 
Linlithgow  to  Edinburgh    is   nothing   extraordinary,  but 
the  road   approaching   the  city   is   grand,  and   the  first 
227 


A  Note  from  Sir  Walter 

view  of  the  Castle  and  "mine  own  romantic  town" 
delighted  my  companions ;  the  day  was  fine  and  they 
were  sitting  outside  on  the  barouche  seat  —  a  seat  which 
you,  my  dear  aunt,  would  not  have  envied  them  with  all 
their  fine  prospects  ;  by  this  approach  to  Edinburgh  there 
are  no  suburbs ;  you  drive  at  once  through  magnificent 
broad  streets  and  fine  squares  —  all  the  houses  are  of 
stone,  darker  than  the  Ardbraccain  stone,  and  of  a  kind 
that  is  little  injured  by  weather  or  time.  Margaret 
Alison  had  taken  lodgings  for  us  in  Abercromby  Place  — 
finely  built,  with  hanging  shrubbery  garden,  and  the 
house  as  delightful  as  the  situation.  As  soon  as  we  had 
packed,  and  arranged  our  things  the  evening  of  our 
arrival,  we  walked,  about  ten  minutes1  distance  from  us, 
to  our  dear  old  friends  the  Alisons.  We  found  them 
shawled  and  bonneted,  just  coming  to  see  us. 

Mr.  Alison  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  had  settled  that  we 
should  drive  the  first  day  after  our  arrival  with  Mr. 
Alison,  which  was  just  what  we  wished;  but  on  our 
return  home  we  found  a  note  from  Sir  Walter: 

"  DEAR  Miss  EDGWORTH,  —  I  have  just  received  your 
kind  note,  just  when  I  had  persuaded  myself  it  was  most 
likely  I  should  see  you  in  person  or  hear  of  your  arrival. 
Mr.  Alison  writes  to  me  you  are  engaged  to  drive  with 
him  to-morrow,  which  puts  Roslin  out  of  the  question 
for  that  day,  as  it  might  keep  you  late.  On  Sunday  I 
hope  you  will  join  our  family  party  at  five,'  and  on  Monday 
I  have  asked  one  or  two  of  the  northern  lights  on  purpose 
to  meet  you.  I  should  be  engrossing  at  any  time,  but 
we  shall  be  more  disposed  to  be  so  just  now,  because 
on  the  1 2th  I  am  under  the  necessity  of  going  to  a 
different  kingdom  (only  the  kingdom  of  Fife)  for  a  day 
or  two.  To-morrow,  if  it  is  quite  agreeable,  I  will  wait  on 
you  about  twelve,  and  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  show 
you  some  of  our  improvements.  —  I  am  always  most 
respectfully  yours,  WALTER  SCOTT 

"  EDINBURGH,  Friday 

228 


First  Sound  of  Walter  Scott's  Voice 

"  P.S.  —  Our  old  family  coach  is  licensed  to  carry  six\ 
so  take  no  care  on  that  score.  I  enclose  Mr.  Alison's 
note;  truly  sorry  I  could  not  accept  the  invitation  it 
contains. 

"  P.S.  —  My  wife  insists  I  shall  add  that  the  Laird  of 
Staffa  promised  to  look  in  on  us  this  evening  at  eight  or 
nine,  for  the  purpose  of  letting  us  hear  one  of  his  clans- 
men sing  some  Highland  boat  songs  and  the  like,  and 
that  if  you  will  come,  as  the  Irish  should  to  the  Scotch, 
without  any  ceremony,  you  will  hear  what  is  perhaps 
more  curious  than  mellifluous.  The  man  returns  to  the 
Isles  to-morrow.  There  are  no  strangers  with  us;  'no 
party ;  none  but  all  our  own  family  and  two  old  friends. 

"  Moreover,  all  our  woman-kind  have  been  calling  it 
Gibb's  hotel,  so  if  you  are  not  really  tired  and  late,  you 
have  not  even  pride,  the  ladies'  last  defence,  to  oppose  to 
this  request.  But,  above  all,  do  not  fatigue  yourself  and 
the  young  ladies. 

"No  dressing  to  be  thought  of." 

Ten  o'clock  struck  as  I  read  the  note ;  we  were  tired 
—  we  were  not  fit  to  be  seen;  but  I  thought  it  right  to 
accept  "  Walter  Scott's "  cordial  invitation ;  sent  for  a 
hackney  coach,  and  just  as  we  were,  without  dressing, 
went.  As  the  coach  stopped,  we  saw  the  hall  lighted,  and 
the  moment  the  door  opened,  heard  the  joyous  sounds  of 
loud  singing.  Three  servants  —  "  The  Miss  Edgeworths  " 
sounded  from  hall  to  landing-place,  and  as  I  paused  for  a 
moment  in  the  anteroom,  I  heard  the  first  sound  of 
Walter  Scott's  voice,  " The  Miss  Edgeworths  come" 

The  room  was  lighted  by  only  one  globe  lamp.  A 
circle  were  singing  low  and  beating  time.  All  stopped 
in  an  instant,  and  Walter  Scott  in  the  most  cordial 
and  courteous  manner  stepped  forward  to  welcome  us : 
"  Miss  Edgeworth,  this  is  so  kind  of  you  !  " 

My  first  impression  was  that  he  was  neither  so  large, 
nor  so  heavy  in  appearance,  as  I  had  been  led  to  expect 
by  description,  bust,  and  picture.  He  is  more  lame  than 
229 


Highland   Boat  Songs 

I  expected,  but  not  unwieldy ;  his  countenance,  even  by 
the  uncertain  light  in  which  I  first  saw  it,  pleased  me 
much,  benevolent  and  full  of  genius,  without  the  slightest 
effort  at  expression ;  delightfully  natural,  as  if  he  did  not 
know  he  was  Walter  Scott  or  the  Great  Unknown  of  the 
north,  as  if  he  only  thought  of  making  others  happy. 

After  naming  to  us  "Lady  Scott,  Staffa,  my  daughter 
Lockhart,  Sophia,  another  daughter  Anne,  my  son,  my 
son-in-law  Lockhart,"  just  in  the  broken  circle  as  they 
then  stood,  and  showing,  me  that  only  his  family  and  his 
friends,  Mr.  Clarke  and  Mr.  Sharpe,  were  present,  he  sat 
down  for  a  minute  beside  me  on  a  low  sofa ;  and  on  my 
saying,  "  Do  not  let  us  interrupt  what  was  going  on,"  he 
immediately  rose  and  begged  Staffa  to  bid  his  boatman 
strike  up  again.  "Will  you  join  in  the  circle  with  us?" 
He  put  the  end  of  a  silk  handkerchief  into  my  hand,  and 
others  into  my  sisters' ;  they  held  these  handkerchiefs  all 
in  their  circle  again,  and  the  boatman  began  to  roar  out 
a  Gaelic  song,  to  which  they  all  stamped  in  time  and 
repeated  the  chorus,  which,  as  far  as  I  could  hear,  sounded 
like  "  at  am  Vaun !  at  am  Vaun ! "  frequently  repeated 
with  prodigious  enthusiasm.  In  another  I  could  make 
out  no  intelligible  sound  but  "  Bar  !  bar  !  bar  !  "  But  the 
boatman's  dark  eyes  were  ready  to  start  out  of  his  head 
with  rapture  as  he  sang  and  stamped,  and  shook  the 
handkerchief  on  each  side,  and  the  circle  imitated. 

Lady  Scott  is  so  exactly  what  I  had  heard  her  de- 
scribed, that  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  seen  her  before.  She 
must  have  been  very  handsome.  French  dark  large 
eyes,  civil  and  good-natured.  Supper  at  a  round  table,  a 
family  supper,  with  attention  to  us,  with  sufficient  and  no 
more.  The  impression  left  on  my  mind  this  night  is  that 
Walter  Scott  is  one  of  the  best  bred  men  I  ever  saw, 
with  all  the  exquisite  politeness  which  he  knows  so  well 
230 


With  Scott  for  Cicerone 

how  to  describe,  which  is  of  no  particular  school  or 
country,  but  which  is  of  all  countries,  the  politeness  which 
arises  from  good  and  quick  sense  and  jesting,  which 
seems  to  know  by  instinct  the  characters  of  others,  to  see 
what  will  please,  and  put  all  his  guests  at  their  ease.  As 
I  sat  beside  him  at  supper,  I  could  not  believe  he  was  a 
stranger,  and  forgot  he  was  a  great  man.  Mr.  Lockhart 
is  very  handsome,  quite  unlike  his  picture  in  Peters 
Letters. 

When  we  wakened  in  the  morning,  the  whole  scene  of 
the  preceding  night  seemed  like  a  dream ;  however,  at 
twelve  came  the  real  Lady  Scott ;  and  we  called  for 
Scott  at  the  Parliament  House,  who  came  out  of  the 
Courts  with  joyous  face  as  if  he  had  nothing  on  earth  to 
do  or  to  think  of,  but  to  show  us  Edinburgh.  Seeming  to 
enjoy  it  all  as  much  as  he  could,  he  carried  us  to  Parlia- 
ment House,  Advocates'  Library,  Castle,  and  Holyrood 
House.  His  conversation  all  the  time  better  than  any- 
thing we  could  see,  full  of  a  propos  anecdote,  historic, 
serious  or  comic,  just  as  occasion  called  for  it,  and  all 
with  a  bonhomie  and  an  ease  that  made  us  forget  it  was 
any  trouble  even  to  his  lameness  to  mount  flights  of 
eternal  stairs.  Chantrey's  statues  of  Lord  Melville  and 
President  Blair  are  admirable.  There  is  another  by 
Roubillac  of  Duncan  Forbes,  which  is  excellent.  Scott 
is  enthusiastic  about  the  beauties  of  Edinburgh,  and 
well  he  may  be,  the  most  magnificent  as  well  as  the 
most  romantic  of  cities. 

We  dined  with  the  dear  good  Alisons.  Mr.  Alison 
met  me  at  the  drawing-room  door,  took  me  in  his  arms 
and  gave  me  a  hearty  hug,  and  I  do  not  think  he  is  much 
altered,  only  that  his  locks  are  silvered  over.  At  the 
dinner  were,  besides  his  two  sons  and  two  daughters 
and  Mr.  Alison,  Mr.  and  Mrs  Skene.  In  one  of  Scott's 
231 


"Really  too  barefaced" 

introductions  to  Marmion  you  will  find  Mr.  Skene,  Mr. 
Hope,  the  Scotch  Solicitor-General  (it  is  curious  the 
Solicitor-Generals  of  Scotland  and  Ireland  should  be 
Hope  and  Joy!),  Mr.  Brewster,  and  Lord  Meadowbank, 
and  Mrs.  Maconachie  his  wife.  Mr.  Alison  wanted  me 
to  sit  beside  everybody,  and  I  wanted  to  sit  by  him,  and 
this  I  accomplished ;  on  the  other  side  was  Mr.  Hope, 
whose  head  and  character  you  will  find  in  Peters 
Letters-,  he  was  very  entertaining.  Sophy  sat  beside 
Mr.  Brewster,  and  had  a  great  deal  of  conversation  with 
him. 

Next  day,  Sunday,  went  to  hear  Mr.  Alison ;  his  fine 
voice  but  little  altered.  To  me  he  appears  the  best 
preacher  I  have  ever  heard.  Dined  at  Scott1  s ;  only  his 
own  family,  his  friend  Skene,  his  wife  and  daughter,  and 
Sir  Henry  Stewart ;  I  sat  beside  Scott.  I  dare  not 
attempt  at  this  moment  even  to  think  of  any  of  the 
anecdotes  he  told,  the  fragments  of  poetry  he  repeated, 
or  the  observations  on  national  character  he  made, 
lest  I  should  be  tempted  to  write  some  of  them  for 
you,  and  should  never  end  this  letter,  which  must  be 
ended  some  time  or  other.  His  strong  affection  for  his 
early  friends  and  his  country  gives  a  power  and  charm 
to  his  conversation,  which  cannot  be  given  by  the  polish 
of  the  London  world  or  by  the  habit  of  literary  conversa- 
tion. Quentin  Durward  was  lying  on  the  table.  Mrs. 
Skene  took  it  up  and  said,  "  This  is  really  too  bare- 
faced." Scott,  when  pointing  to  the  hospital  built  by 
Heriot,  said,  "That  was  built  by  one  Heriot,  you  know, 
the  jeweller,  in  Charles  the  Second's  time." 

There  was  an  arch  simplicity  in  his  look,  at  which  we 
could  hardly  forbear  laughing. 


232 


Scott's   Hospitable  Castle 
Miss  Edgeworth  visits  Sir  Walter  at  Abbotsford      o 

(To  Mr.  Ruxton) 

ABBOTSFORD,  August  9,  1823 

I  REMEMBER  that  you  requested  one  of  our  party 
to  -write  a  few  lines  from  Abbotsford.  I  think  I 
mentioned  to  my  aunt  or  Sophy  the  impression  which 
I  first  experienced  from  Sir  Walter  Scott's  great  simplicity 
of  manner,  joined  to  his  wonderful  superiority  of  intellect. 
This  impression  has  been  strengthened  by  all  I  have  seen 
of  him  since.  In  living  with  him  in  the  country,  I  have 
particularly  liked  his  behaviour  towards  his  variety  of 
guests,  of  all  ranks,  who  came  to  his  hospitable  castle. 
Many  of  these  are  artists,  painters,  architects,  mechanists, 
antiquarians,  people  who  look  up  to  him  for  patronage. 
None  of  them  permitted  to  be  hangers-on  or  parasites, 
and  his  manners  are  perfectly  kind,  courteous,  yet  such 
as  to  command  respect ;  and  I  never  heard  any  one 
attempt  to  flatter  him.  I  never  saw  an  author  less  of  an 
author  in  his  .habits.  This  I  early  observed,  but  have 
been  the  more  struck  with  it  the  longer  I  have  been 
with  him.  He  has,  indeed,  such  variety  of  occupations, 
that  he  has  not  time  to  think  of  his  own  works ;  how  he 
has  time  to  write  them  is  a  wonder.  You  would  like 
him  for  his  love  of  trees :  a  great  part  of  his  time  out  of 
doors  is  taken  up  in  pruning  his  trees.  I  have  within 
this  hour  heard  a  gentleman  say  to  him,  u  You  have  had 
a  great  deal  of  experience  in  planting,  Sir  Walter;  do 
you  advise  much  thinning  or  not? 

"  I  should  advise  much  thinning,  but  little  at  a  time. 
If  you  thin  much  at  a  time,  you  let  in  the  wind  and  hurt 
your  trees." 

233 


A  Prophet  in  his  own  Country 

I  hope  to  show  you  a  sketch  of  Abbotsford  Sophy  has 
made  —  better  than  my  description. 

Besides  the  abbey  of  Melrose,  we  have  seen  many 
interesting  places  in  this  neighbourhood. 

To-day  we  have  been  a  delightful  drive  through 
Ettrick  Forest,  and  to  the  ruins  of  Newark  —  the  hall 
of  Newark,  where  the  ladies  bent  their  necks  of  snow 
to  hear  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

Though  great  part  of  Ettrick  Forest  was  cut  down 
years  ago,  yet  much  of  it  has  grown  up  again  to  respect- 
able heights,  and  many,  most  beautiful,  ash,  oak,  and 
alder  trees  remain.  We  had  a  happy  walk  by  the  river, 
and  after  refreshing  ourselves  with  a  luncheon  in  a 
summer-house,  beautifully  situated,  we  went  to  look  at  the 
ruins  of  Newark.  It  was  a  pity  that  this  fine  old  building 
was  let  go  to  ruin,  which  it  has  done  only  within  the  last 
seventy  years.  The  late  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Buccleuch, 
to  whom  it  belonged,  had  in  their  youth  lived  abroad, 
and  were  so  ignorant  about  their  own  estate  in  Scotland, 
that  when  they  first  came  to  live  here  they  supposed  there 
were  no  trees,  and  no  wood  they  thought  could  be  had, 
and  brought  with  them,  among  other  things,  a  barrel 
full  of  skewers  for  the  cook. 

It  is  very  agreeable  to  observe  how  many  friends  of 
long-standing  Scott  has  in  the  neighbourhood  :  they  have 
been  here,  and  we  have  been  at  their  houses — very  good 
houses,  and  the  style  of  living  excellent.  Except  one 
Prussian  prince  and  one  Swiss  baron,  no  foreign  visitors 
have  been  here ;  indeed,  the  house  is  in  such  a  state  of 
painting  and  papering,  and  carpenters  finishing  new 
rooms  and  chasing  the  inhabitants  out  of  the  old,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  have  much  company. 

Sir  Walter's  eldest  son  was  here  for  some  days  —  now 
gone  back  to  Sandhurst.  He  is  excessively  shy,  very 
234 


Farewell  to  Abbotsford 

handsome,  not  at  all  literary,  but  he  has  sense  and 
honourable  principles,  and  is  very  grateful  to  those  who 
were  kind  to  him  in  Ireland. 

His  younger  brother,  Charles,  who  is  now  at  home, 
has  more  easy  manners,  is  more  conversible,  and  has 
more  of  his  father's  literary  taste. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  we  are  to  leave  Abbotsford  the  day 
after  to-morrow ;  but  the  longer  we  stay  the  more  sorry 
we  shall  feel  to  go.  We  had  intended  to  have  paid  a 
visit  to  Lady  Selkirk  at  St.  Mary's  Isle,  but  this  would 
be  a  hundred  miles  out  of  our  way,  and  I  have  no  time 
for  it,  which  I  regret,  as  I  liked  very  much  the  little  I 
saw  of  Lady  Selkirk  in  London. 


Dr.  John  Brown  meets  Thackeray      -^>      *cy       ^* 

28  RUTLAND  STREET 
December  1851  or  January  1852 

MY  DEAR  COVENTRY,— I  wish  you  had  been  here 
for  the  last  fortnight  to  have  seen,  heard,  and  known 
Thackeray,  —  a  fellow  after  your  own  heart,  —  a  strong- 
headed,  sound-hearted,  judicious  fellow,  who  knew  the 
things  that  differ,  and  prefers  Pope  to  Longfellow,  and  Mrs. 
Barrett  Browning  and  Milton  to  Mr.  Festus,  and  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  to  Pickwick,  and  David  Hume's  History 
to  Sheriff  Alison's,  and  the  verses  by  E.  V.  K.  to  his 
friend  in  town  to  anything  he  has  seen  for  a  long  time ; 
and  "  the  impassioned  grape "  to  the  whole  work, 
prosaic  and  poetical,  of  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton.  I  have  seen 
a  great  deal  of  him,  and  talked  with  him  on  all  sorts  of 
things,  and  next  to  yourself  I  know  no  man  so  much  to  my 
mind.  He  is  much  better  and  greater  than  his  works. 
His  lectures  have  been  very  well  attended,  and  I  hope 
235 


Praise   of  Thackeray 

he  will  carry  off  ^300.  I  wish  he  could  have  taken  as 
much  from  Glasgow,  but  this  may  not  be  found  possible. 
He  was  so  curious  about  you  after  sending  these  verses, 
which  he  liked  exceedingly.  He  is  6  feet  3  in  height, 
with  a  broad  kindly  face  and  an  immense  skull.  Do  you 
remember  Dr.  Henderson  of  Galashiels?  He  is  ludi- 
crously like  him,  —  the  same  big  head  and  broad  face,  — 
his  voice  is  very  like,  and  the  same  nicety  in  expression 
and  in  the  cadences  of  the  voice.  He  makes  no  figure  in 
company,  except  as  very  good-humoured,  and  by  saying 
now  and  .then  a  quietly  strong  thing.  I  so  much  wish 
you  had  met  him.  He  is  as  much  bigger  than  Dickens  as 
a  three-decker  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  guns  is  bigger 
than  a  small  steamer  with  one  long-range  swivel-gun. 
He  has  set  everybody  here  a-reading  Stella? s  Journal, 
Gulliver,  the  Tatler,  Joseph  Andrews,  and  Humphrey 
Clinker.  He  has  a  great  turn  for  politics,  right  notions, 
and  keen  desires,  and  from  his  kind  of  head  would  make 
a  good  public  man.  He  has  much  in  him  which  cannot 
find  issue  in  mere  authorship.  —  Yours  ever  affection- 
ately, J.  B. 


Thackeray  praises  Dickens  to  Mrs.  Brookfield        -^ 

Wednesday,  1849 

WHAT  have  I  been  doing  since  these  many  days?  I 
hardly  know.  I  have  written  such  a  stupid  number 
of  Pendennis  in  consequence  of  not  seeing  you,  that  I  shall 
be  ruined  if  you  are  to  stay  away  much  longer  .  .  .  Has 
William  written  to  you  about  our  trip  to  Hampstead  on 
Sunday?  It  was  very  pleasant.  We  went  first  to  St. 
Mark's  Church,  where  I  always  thought  you  went,  but 
where  the  pew-opener  had  never  heard  of  such  a  person 

236 


Praise  of  Dickens 

as  Mrs.  J.  O.  B. ;  and  having  heard  a  jolly  and  perfectly 
stupid  sermon,  walked  over  Primrose  Hill  to  the  Crowes, 
where  his  revjerence  gave  Mrs.  Crowe  half  an  hour's 
private  talk,  whilst  I  was  talking  under  the  blossoming 
apple  tree  about  newspapers  to  Monsieur  Crowe.  Well, 
Mrs.  Crowe  was  delighted  with  William  and  his  manner 
of  discoorsing  her;  and  indeed,  though  I  say  it  that 
shouldn't,  from  what  he  said  afterwards,  and  from  what 
we  have  often  talked  over  pipes  in  private,  that  is  a  pious 
and  kind  soul.  I  mean  his,  and  calculated  to  soothe  and 
comfort  and  appreciate  and  elevate,  so  to  speak,  out  of 
despair,  many  a  soul  that  your  more  tremendous,  rigour- 
ous  divines  would  leave  on  the  wayside,  where  sin,  that 
robber,  had  left  them  half-killed.  I  will  have  a  Samari- 
tan parson  when  I  fall  among  thieves.  You,  dear  lady, 
may  send  for  an  ascetic  if  you  like ;  what  is  he  to  find 
wrong  in  you  ? 

I  have  talked  to  my  mother  about  her  going  to  Paris 
with  the  children ;  she  is  very  much  pleased  at  the  notion, 
and  it  won't  be  very  lonely  to  me.  I  shall  be  alone  for 
some  months,  at  any  rate,  —  and  vow  and  swear  I'll  save 
money.  .  .  . 

Have  you  read  Dickens?  O,  it  is  charming!  brave 
Dickens!  It  has  some  of  the  very  prettiest  touches  — 
those  inimitable  Dickens  touches  which  make  such  a 
great  man  of  him ;  and  the  reading  of  the  book  has  done 
another  author  a  great  deal  of  good.  In  the  first  place,  it 
pleases  the  other  author  to  see  that  Dickens,  who  has  long 
left  off  alluding  to  the  O.  A.'s  works,  has  been  copying  the 
O.A.,  and  greatly  simplifying  his  style  and  overcoming  the 
use  of  fine  words.  By  this  the  public  will  be  the  gainer, 
and  David  Copperfield  will  be  improved  by  taking  a  les- 
son from  Vanity  Fair.  Secondly,  it  has  put  me  upon  my 
metal ;  for  ah !  madame,  all  the  metal  was  out  of  me,  and 
237 


Spedding's  Forehead 

I  have  been  dreadfully  and  curiously  cast  down  this 
month  past.  I  say,  secondly,  it  has  put  me  on  my  metal, 
and  made  me  feel  I  must  do  something;  that  I  have 
fame  and  name  and  family  to  support.  .  .  • 


Edward  FitzGerald  in  a  houseful  of  children  ^c^ 

GELDESTONE  HALL,  BECCLES 
Sunday ',  May  22/42 

MY  DEAR  LAURENCE,— I  read  of  the  advertise- 
ments of  sales  and  auctions,  but  don't  envy  you 
Londoners  while  I  am  here  in  the  midst  of  green  idleness, 
as  Leigh  Hunt  might  call  it. 

What  are  pictures?  I  am  all  for  pure  spirit.  You 
have,  of  course,  read  the  account  of  Spedding's  forehead 
landing  in  America. 

English  sailors  hail  it  in  the  Channel,  mistaking  it 
for  Beachy  Head.  There  is  a  Shakespeare  Cliff,  and  a 
Spedding  Cliff. 

Good  old  fellow!  I  hope  he'll  come  back  safe  and 
sound,  forehead  and  all.  I  sit  writing  this  at  my  bed- 
room window,  while  the  rain  (long  looked  for)  patters  on 
the  window.  I  prophesied  it  to-day,  which  is  a  great 
comfort.  We  have  a  housefull  of  the  most  delightful 
children :  and  if  the  rain  would  last,  and  the  grass  grow, 
all  would  be  well.  I  think  the  rain  will  last.  I  shall 
prophesy  so  when  I  go  down  to  our  early  dinner.  For 
it  is  Sunday  :  and  we  dine  children  and  all  at  one  o'clock : 
and  go  to  afternoon  church,  and  a  great  tea  at  six  —  then 
a  pipe  (except  for  the  young  ladies)  —  a  stroll  —  a  bit  of 
supper  —  and  to  bed.  Wake  in  the  morning  at  five  — 
open  the  window  and  read  Ecclesiasticus.  A  proverb 
says  that  "  everything  is  fun  in  the  country."  My  Con- 

238 


Blake  nearing  Seventy 

stable  has  been  greatly  admired,  and  is  reckoned  quite 
genuine  by  our  great  judge,  Mr.  Churchyard.  Mr.  C. 
paints  himself:  (not  in  body  colours,  as  you  waggishly 
insinuate)  and  nicely  too.  He  understands  Gainsborough, 
Constable,  and  old  Crome.  Have  you  ever  seen  pictures 
by  the  latter?  some  very  fine.  He  was  a  Norwich  man. 

William  Blake  reports  progress          x^        ^^ 
(To  George  Cumberland) 

April  12,  1827 

I  HAVE  been  very  near  the  gates  of  death,  and  have 
returned  very  weak,  and  an  old  man,  feeble  and 
tottering,  but  not  in  spirit  and  life,  not  in  the  real  man, 
the  imagination,  which  liveth  for  ever.  In  that  I  am 
stronger  and  stronger,  as  this  foolish  body  decays.  I 
thank  you  for  the  pains  you  have  taken  with  poor  Job. 
I  know  too  well  that  the  great  majority  of  Englishmen 
are  fond  of  the  indefinite,  which  they  measure  by  Newton's 
doctrine  of  the  fluxions  of  an  atom,  a  thing  which 
does  not  exist.  These  are  politicians,  and  think  that 
republican  art  is  inimical  to  their  atom,  for  a  line  or  a 
lineament  is  not  formed  by  chance.  A  line  is  a  line  in 
its  minutest  subdivisions,  straight  or  crooked.  It  is  itself, 
not  intermeasurable  by  anything  else.  Such  is  Job.  But 
since  the  French  Revolution  Englishmen  are  all  inter- 
measurable  by  one  another:  certainly  a  happy  state  of 
agreement,  in  which  I  for  one  do  not  agree.  God  keep 
you  and  me  from  the  divinity  of  yes,  and  no  too  —  the  yea, 
nay,  creeping  Jesus  —  from  supposing  up  and  down  to 
be  the  same  thing,  as  all  experimentalists  must  suppose. 

You  are  desirous,  I  know,  to  dispose  of  some  of  my 
works,  but  having  none  remaining  of  all  I  have  printed, 
239 


Prophecies  to  Sell 

I  cannot  print  more  except  at  a  great  loss.  1  am  now 
painting  a  set  of  the  Song  of  Innocence  and  Experience 
for  a  friend  at  ten  guineas.  The  last  work  I  produced 
is  a  poem  entitled  Jerusalem,  the  Emanation  of  the  Giant 
Albion,  but  find  that  to  print  it  will  cost  my  time  the 
amount  of  twenty  guineas.  One  I  have  finished,  but  it 
is  not  likely  I  shall  find  a  customer  for  it.  As  you  wish 
me  to  send  you  a  list  with  the  prices,  they  are  as 
follows : 

£    s.    D. 

America 660 

Europe 660 

Visions,  etc 55° 

Thel 330 

Songs  of  Innocence  and  Experience      .       10     10      o 
Urizen  .......660 

The  little  Card  I  will  do  as  soon  as  possible ! 

Edward  FitzGerald  describes  his  Sir  Joshua    -^    x^ 

1869 

DEAR  MRS.  THOMPSON,— (I  must  get  a  new  Pen 
for  you  —  which  doesn't  promise  to  act  as  well  as 
the  old  one  —  Try  another). 

Dear  Mrs.  Thompson  —  Mistress  of  Trinity —  (this  does 
better)  —  I  am  both  sorry,  and  glad,  that  you  wrote  me 
the  Letter  you  have  written  to  me :  sorry,  because  I  think 
it  was  an  effort  to  you,  disabled  as  you  are ;  and  glad,  I 
need  not  say  why. 

I  despatched  Spedding's  letter  to  your  Master  yester- 
day ;  I  daresay  you  have  read  it :  for  there  was  nothing 
extraordinary  wicked  in  it.  But,  he  to  talk  of  my  per- 
versity! .  .  . 

240 


"  My  Sir  Joshua  is  a  darling " 

My  Sir  Joshua  is  a  darling.  A  pretty  young  Woman 
("Girl"  I  won't  call  her)  sitting  with  a  turtle-dove 
in  her  lap,  while  its  mate  is  supposed  to  be  flying  down 
to  it  from  the  window.  I  say  "  supposed,"  for  Sir  J.,  who 
didn't  know  much  of  the  drawing  of  Birds,  any  more  than 
of  Men  and  Women,  has  made  a  thing  like  a  stuffed  Bird 
clawing  down  like  a  Parrot.  But  then,  the  colour,  the 
Dove-colour,  subdued  so  as  to  carry  off  the  richer  tints  of 
the  dear  GhTs  dress;  and  she,  too,  pensive,  not  senti- 
mental :  a  Lady,  as  her  Painter  was  a  Gentleman. 

Faded  as  it  is  in  the  face  (the  Lake,  which  he  would 
use,  having  partially  flown),  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  of  his  I  have  seen :  more  varied  in  colour ;  not 
the  simple  cream-white  dress  he  was  fond  of,  but  with  a 
light  gold-threaded  Scarf,  a  blue  sash,  a  green  chair, 
etc.  .  .  . 

I  was  rather  taken  aback  by  the  Master's  having  dis- 
covered my  last  —  yes,  and  bond-fide  my  last —  translation 
in  the  volume  I  sent  to  your  Library.  I  thought  it  would 
slip  in  unobserved,  and  I  should  have  given  all  my  little 
contributions  to  my  old  College,  without  after-reckoning. 
Had  I  known  you  as  the  Wife  of  any  but  the  "  quondam  " 
Greek  Professor,  I  should  very  likely  have  sent  it  to  you : 
since  it  was  meant  for  those  who  might  wish  for  some 
insight  into  a  Play  which  I  must  think  they  can  scarcely 
have  been  tempted  into  before  by  my  previous  Translation. 
It  remains  to  be  much  better  done ;  but  if  Women  of 
Sense  and  Taste,  and  Men  of  Sense  and  Taste  (who  don't 
know  Greek)  can  read,  and  be  interested  in  such  a 
glimpse  as  I  give  them  of  the  Original,  they  must  be 
content,  and  not  look  the  Horse  too  close  in  the  mouth, 
till  a  better  comes  to  hand. 

My  Lugger  has  had  (along  with  her  neighbours)  such 
a  Season  of  Winds  as  no  one  remembers.  We  made 
R  241 


Praise  of  FitzGerald 

^450  in  the  North  Sea ;  and  (just  for  fun)  I  did  wish  to 
realise  £$  in  my  Pocket.  But  my  Captain  would  take  it 
all  to  pay  Bills.  But  if  he  makes  another  ^400  this 
Home  Voyage!  Oh,  then  we  shall  have  money  in  our 
Pockets.  I  do  wish  this.  For  the  anxiety  about  all  these 
People's  lives  has  been  so  much  more  to  me  than  all  the 
amusement  I  have  got  from  the  Business,  that  I  think  I 
will  draw  out  of  it  if  I  can  see  my  Captain  sufficiently 
firm  on  his  legs  to  carry  it  on  alone.  True,  there  will 
then  be  the  same  risk  to  him  and  his  ten  men,  but  they 
don't  care ;  only  I  sit  here  listening  to  the  Winds  in  the 
Chimney  and  always  thinking  of  the  eleven  hanging  at  my 
own  fingers1  ends.  This  letter  is  all  desperately  about  me 
and  mine,  Translations  and  Ships.  And  now  I  am  going 
to  walk  in  my  Garden :  and  feed  my  Captain's  Pony  with 
white  Carrots  ;  and  in  the  Evening  have  my  Lad  come  and 
read  for  an  hour  and  a  half  (he  stumbles  at  every  third 
word,  and  gets  dreadfully  tired,  and  so  do  I ;  but  I 
renovate  him  with  Cake  and  Sweet  Wine,  and  I  can't  just 
now  smoke  the  Pipe  nor  drink  the  Grog).  "  These  are  my 
Troubles,  Mr.  Wesley,"  but  I  am  still  the  Master's  and 
Mistress's  loyal  Servant, 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD  l 

1  There  is  an  ^95  in  FitzGerald's  letters  which  is  so  exquisitely 
idyllic  as  to  be  almost  heavenly.  He  takes  you  with  him,  exactly 
accommodating  his  pace  to  yours,  walks  through  meadows  so 
tranquil,  and  yet  abounding  in  the  most  delicate  surprises.  And 
these  surprises  seem  so  familiar,  just  as  if  they  had  originated  with 
yourself.  What  delicious  blending !  What  a  perfect  interweft  of 
thought  and  diction !  What  a  sweet  companion !  —  T.  E.  Brown  to 
S.  T.  Irwin. 


242 


XI 

GUESTS  AND  THE  PLAY 

Macaulay  describes  hig  first  visit  to  Holland  House 


,  June  i,  1831 

MY   DEAR    SISTER,  —  My    last   letter   was    a  dull 
one.     I  mean   this  to  be  very  amusing.      My  last 
was  about   Basinghall  Street,  attorneys,  and  bankrupts. 
But  for  this  —  take  it  dramatically  in  the  German  style. 

Fine  morning.    Scene,  the  great  entrance  of  Holland 
House 

Enter  MACAULAY  and  Two  FOOTMEN  in  livery 

First  Footman.      Sir,  may  I  venture   to  demand  your 

name? 

Macaulay.  Macaulay,  and  thereto  I  add  M.P. 
And  that  addition,  even  in  these  proud  halls, 
May  well  ensure  the  bearer  some  respect. 
Second  Footman.  And  art  thou  come  to  breakfast  with 

our  Lord  ? 

Macaulay.     I  am  :  for  so  his  hospitable  will, 
And  hers  —  the  peerless  dame  ye  serve  —  hath  bade. 
243 


Lord  and  Lady  Holland 

First  Footman.   Ascend  the  stair,  and  thou  above  shalt 

find, 
On  snow-white  linen  spread,  the  luscious  meal. 

{Exit  MACAULAY  upstairs 

In  plain  English  prose,  I  went  this  morning  to  break- 
fast at  Holland  House.  The  day  was  fine,  and  I  arrived 
at  twenty  minutes  after  ten.  After  I  had  lounged  a  short 
time  in  the  dining-room,  I  heard  a  gruff  good-natured 
voice  asking,  "  Where  is  Mr.  Macaulay  ?  Where  have 
you  put  him  ?  "  and  in  his  arm-chair  Lord  Holland  was 
wheeled  in.  He  took  me  round  the  apartments,  he 
riding  and  I  walking.  He  gave  me  the  history  of  the 
most  remarkable  portraits  in  the  library,  where  there  is, 
by  the  bye,  one  of  the  few  bad  pieces  of  Lawrence  that  I 
have  seen  —  a  head  of  Charles  James  Fox,  an  ignominious 
failure.  Lord  Holland  said  that  it  was  the  worst  ever 
painted  of  so  eminent  a  man  by  so  eminent  an  artist. 
There  is  a  very  fine  head  of  Machiavelli,  and  another  of 
Earl  Grey,  a  very  different  sort  of  man.  I  observed  a 
portrait  of  Lady  Holland  painted  some  thirty  years  ago. 
I  could  have  cried  to  see  the  change.  She  must  have 
been  a  most  beautiful  woman.  She  still  looks,  however, 
as  if  she  had  been  handsome,  and  shows  in  one  respect 
great  taste  and  sense.  She  does  not  rouge  at  all ;  and 
her  costume  is  not  youthful,  so  that  she  looks  as  well  in 
the  morning  as  in  the  evening.  We  came  back  to  the 
dining-room.  Our  breakfast  party  consisted  of  my  Lord 
and  Lady,  myself,  Lord  Russell,  and  Luttrell.  You  must 
have  heard  of  Luttrell.  I  met  him  once  at  Rogers's ; 
and  I  have  seen  him,  I  think,  in  other  places.  He  is  a 
famous  wit,  —  the  most  popular,  I  think,  of  all  the  pro- 
fessed wits,  —  a  man  who  has  lived  in  the  highest  circles, 
a  scholar,  and  no  contemptible  poet.  He  wrote  a  little 
244 


Lady   Holland's  Dream 

volume  of  verse  entitled  Advice  to  Julia,  —  not  first  rate, 
but  neat,  lively,  piquant,  and  showing  the  most  consum- 
mate knowledge  of  fashionable  life. 

We  breakfasted  on  very  good  coffee,  and  very  good 
tea,  and  very  good  eggs,  butter  kept  in  the  midst  of  ice, 
and  hot  rolls.  Lady  Holland  told  us  her  dreams ;  how 
she  had  dreamed  that  a  mad  dog  bit  her  foot,  and  how 
she  set  off  to  Brodie,  and  lost  her  way  in  St.  Martin's 
Lane,  and  could  not  find  him.  She  hoped,  she  said,  the 
dream  would  not  come  true.  I  said  that  I  had  had  a 
dream  which  admitted  of  no  such  hope;  for  I  had 
dreamed  that  I  heard  Pollock  speak  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  that  the  speech  was  very  long,  and  that  he 
was  coughed  down.  This  dream  of  mine  diverted  them 
much. 

After  breakfast  Lady  Holland  offered  to  conduct  me 
to  her  own  drawing-room,  or,  rather,  commanded  my 
attendance.  A  very  beautiful  room  it  is,  opening  on  a 
terrace,  and  wainscotted  with  miniature  paintings  in- 
teresting from  their  merit,  and  interesting  from  their 
history.  Among  them  I  remarked  a  great  many, — 
thirty  I  should  think,  —  which  even  I,  who  am  no  great 
connoisseur,  saw  at  once  could  come  from  no  hand 
but  Stothard's.  They  were  all  on  subjects  from  Lord 
Byron's  poems.  "  Yes,"  said  she,  "  poor  Lord  Byron 
sent  them  to  me  a  short  time  before  the  separation.  I 
sent  them  back,  and  told  him  that,  if  he  gave  them 
away,  he  ought  to  give  them  to  Lady  Byron..  But  he 
said  that  he  would  not,  and  that,  if  I  did  not  take  them, 
the  bailiffs  would,  and  that  they  would  be  lost  in  the 
wreck."  Her  ladyship  then  honoured  me  so  far  as  to 
conduct  me  through  her  dressing-room  into  the  great 
family  bedchamber,  to  show  me  a  very  fine  picture  by 
Reynolds,  of  Fox,  when  a  boy,  birds-nesting.  She  then 
245 


Napoleon  and  Rogers  again 

consigned   me  to  Luttrell,  asking  him   to  show  me  the 
grounds. 

Through  the  grounds  we  went,  and  very  pretty  I 
thought  them.  In  the  Dutch  garden  is  a  fine  bronze 
bust  of  Napoleon,  which  Lord  Holland  put  up  in  1817, 
while  Napoleon  was  a  prisoner  at  St.  Helena.  The  in- 
scription was  selected  by  his  lordship,  and  is  remark- 
ably happy.  It  is  from  Homer's  Odyssey.  I  will  translate 
it,  as  well  as  I  can  extempore,  into  a  measure  which  gives 
a  better  idea  of  Homer's  manner  than  Pope's  sing-song 
couplet. 

"  For  not,  be  sure,  within  the  grave 
Is  hid  that  prince,  the  wise,  the  brave ; 
But  in  an  islet's  narrow  bound, 
With  the  great  Ocean  roaring  round, 
The  captive  of  a  foe  man  base 
He  pines  to  view  his  native  place." 

There  is  a  seat  near  the  spot  which  is  called  Rogers's 
seat.  The  poet  loves,  it  seems,  to  sit  there.  A  very  ele- 
gant inscription  by  Lord  Holland  is  placed  over  it : 

"  Here  Rogers  sate ;  and  here  for  ever  dwell 
With  me  those  pleasures  which  he  sang  so  well." 

Very  neat  and  condensed,  I  think.  Another  inscription 
by  Luttrell  hangs  there.  Luttrell  adjured  me  with  mock 
pathos  to  spare  his  blushes ;  but  I  am  author  enough  to 
know  what  the  blushes  of  authors  mean.  So  I  read  the 
lines,  and  very  pretty  and  polished  they  were,  but  too  many 
to  be  remembered  from  one  reading. 

Having  gone  round  the  grounds  I  took  my  leave,  very 
much  pleased  with  the  place.  Lord  Holland  is  extremely 
kind.  But  that  is  of  course;  for  he  is  kindness  itself. 
246 


The  H.  H.  Fright 

Her  ladyship  too,  which  is  by  no  means  of  course,1  is  all 
graciousness  and  civility.  But,  for  all  this,  I  would  much 
rather  be  quietly  walking  with  you ;  and  the  great  use  of 
going  to  these  fine  places  is  to  learn  how  happy  it  is  possi- 
ble to  be  without  them.  Indeed,  I  care  so  little  for  them 
that  I  certainly  should  not  have  gone  to-day,  but  that  I 
thought  I  should  be  able  to  find  materials  for  a  letter 
which  you  might  like.  —  Farewell. 

T.  B.  MACAULAY 


Charles  Lamb  among  the  Blue-Stockings       -^      -^ 
(To  S.  T.  Coleridge) 

Probably  April  16  or  17,  1800 

I  SEND  you,  in  this  parcel,  my  play,  which  I  beg  you 
to  present  in  my  name,  with  my  respect  and  love,  to 
Wordsworth  and  his  sister.  You  blame  us  for  giving  your 
direction  to  Miss  Wesley;  the  woman  has  been  ten 
times  after  us  about  it,  and  we  gave  it  her  at  last,  under 
the  idea  that  no  further  harm  would  ensue,  but  she  would 
once  write  to  you,  and  you  would  bite  your  lips  and  forget 

*Lady   Holland  could   be  very  terrifying.     Sydney  Smith  has 
some  good  fun  about  it  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Ashburton  in  1836 :  — 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs. dined  at  yesterday.     I  sat  next  to  Mr. 

.     His  voice  faltered  and  he  looked  pale :   I  did  all  I  could  to 

encourage  him ;    made  him  take  quantities  of  sherry.     Mrs. 

also  looked  very  unhappy,  and  I  had  no  doubt  took  the  H.  H. 
draught  when  she  went  home.  You  know,  perhaps,  that  there  is  a 
particular  draught  which  the  London  apothecaries  give  to  persons 
who  have  been  frightened  at  H.  H.  They  will  both  tell  you  that 
they  were  not  at  all  frightened,  but  don't  believe  them  ;  I  have  seen 
so  much  of  the  disorder,  that  I  am  never  mistaken.  However,  don't 
let  me  make  you  uneasy ;  it  generally  goes  off  after  a  day  or  two 
and  rarely  does  any  permanent  injury  to  the  constitution." 
247 


"That  Mopsey,  Miss  Wesley" 

to  answer  it,  and  so  it  would  end.  You  read  us  a  dismal 
homily  upon  "  Realities."  We  know,  quite  as  well  as  you 
do,  what  are  shadows  and  what  are  realities.  You,  for 
instance,  when  you  are  over  your  fourth  or  fifth  jorum, 
chirping  about  old  school  occurrences,  are  the  best  of 
realities.  Shadows  are  cold,  thin  things,  that  have  no 
warmth  or  grasp  in  them.  Miss  Wesley  and  her  friend, 
and  a  tribe  of  authoresses  that  come  after  you  here  daily, 
and,  in  defect  of  you,  hive  and  cluster  upon  us,  are  the 
shadows.  You  encouraged  that  mopsey,  Miss  Wesley, 
to  dance  after  you,  in  the  hope  of  having  her  nonsense 
put  into  a  nonsensical  Anthology.  We  have  pretty  well 
shaken  her  off,  by  that  simple  expedient  of  referring  her 
to  you;  but  there  are  more  burrs  in  the  wind.  I  came 
home  t'other  day  from  business,  hungry  as  a  hunter,  to 
dinner,  with  nothing,  I  am  sure,  of  the  author  but  hunger 
about  me,  and  whom  found  I  closeted  with  Mary  but  a 
friend  of  this  Miss  Wesley,  one  Miss  Benje,  or  Benjey  — 
I  don't  know  how  she  spells  her  name.  I  just  came  in 
time  enough,  I  believe,  luckily  to  prevent  them  from 
exchanging  vows  of  eternal  friendship.  It  seems  she  is 
one  of  your  authoresses,  that  you  first  foster,  and  then 
upbraid  us  with.  But  I  forgive  you.  "The  rogue  has 
given  me  potions  to  make  me  love  him.*'  Well;  go  she 
would  not,  nor  step  a  step  over  our  threshold,  till  we  had 
promised  to  come  and  drink  tea  with  her  next  night.  I 
had  never  seen  her  before,  and  could,  not  tell  who  the 
devil  it  was  that  was  so  familiar.  We  went,  however,  not 
to  be  impolite.  Her  lodgings  are  up  two  pairs  of  stairs 
in  East  Street.  Tea  and  coffee,  and  macaroons  —  a  kind 
of  cake  I  much  love.  We  sat  down.  Presently  Miss 
Benje  broke  the  silence,  by  declaring  herself  quite  of 
a  different  opinion  from  D1  Israeli,  who  supposes  the 
differences  of  human  intellect  to  be  the  mere  effect  of 
248 


Lamb  in  the  Lionesses'  Den 

organisation.  She  begged  to  know  my  opinion.  I 
attempted  to  carry  it  off  with  a  pun  upon  organ ;  but  that 
went  off  very  flat.  She  immediately  conceived  a  very  low 
opinion  of  my  metaphysics ;  and,  turning  round  to  Mary, 
put  some  question  to  her  in  French,  —  possibly  having 
heard  that  neither  Mary  nor  I  understood  French.  The 
explanation  that  took  place  occasioned  some  embarrass- 
ment and  much  wondering.  She  then  fell  into  an  insult- 
ing conversation  about  the  comparative  genius  and  merits 
of  all  modern  languages,  and  concluded  with  asserting 
that  the  Saxon  was  esteemed  the  purest  dialect  in  Ger- 
many. From  thence  she  passed  into  the  subject  of 
poetry ;  where  I,  who  had  hitherto  sat  mute  and  a  hearer 
only,  humbly  hoped  I  might  now  put  in  a  word  to  some 
advantage,  seeing  that  it  was  my  own  trade  in  a  manner. 
But  I  was  stopped  by  a  round  assertion,  that  no  good 
poetry  has  appeared  since  Dr.  Johnson's  time.  It  seems 
the  Doctor  has  suppressed  many  hopeful  geniuses  that 
way  by  the  severity  of  his  critical  strictures  in  his  Lives 
of  the  Poets.  I  here  ventured  to  question  the  fact,  and 
was  beginning  to  appeal  to  names,  but  I  was  assured  "  it 
was  certainly  the  case."  Then  we  discussed  Miss  More's 
book  on  education,  which  I  had  never  read.  It  seems 
Dr.  Gregory,  another  of  Miss  Benjey's  friends,  has  found 
fault  with  one  of  Miss  More's  metaphors.  Miss  More 
has  been  at  some  pains  to  vindicate  herself  —  in  the 
opinion  of  Miss  Benjey,  not  without  success.  It  seems 
the  Doctor  is  invariably  against  the  use  of  broken  or 
mixed  metaphor,  which  he  reprobates  against  the 
authority  of  Shakespeare  himself.  We  next  discussed 
the  question,  whether  Pope  was  a  poet  ?  I  find  Dr. 
Gregory  is  of  opinion  he  was  not,  though  Miss  Seward 
does  not  at  all  concur  with  him  in  this.  We  then  sat 
upon  the  comparative  merits  of  the  ten  translations  of 
249 


cc  A  Canon  at  the  Opera  !  " 

Pizarro,  and  Miss  Benjey  or  Benje  advised  Mary  td 
take  two  of  them  home ;  she  thought  it  might  afford  her 
some  pleasure  to  compare  them  verbatim^  which  we 
declined.  It  being  now  nine  o'clock,  wine  and  macaroons 
were  again  served  round,  and  we  parted,  with  a  promise 
to  go  again  next  week,  and  meet  the  Miss  Porters,  who, 
it  seems  have  heard  much  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  and  wish  to 
meet  us,  because  we  are  his  friends.  I  have  been  pre- 
paring for  the  occasion.  I  crowd  cotton  in  my  ears.  I 
read  all  the  reviews  and  magazines  of  the  past  month 
against  the  dreadful  meeting,  and  I  hope  by  these  means 
to  cut  a  tolerable  second-rate  figure. 

The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  declines  two  invitations      ^> 


(To  Mrs.  Meynell) 

GREEN  STREET,  June,  1840 

THY  servant  is   threescore-and-ten  years  old ;  can  he 
hear  the  sound  of  singing  men  and  singing  women  ? 
A  Canon  at  the  Opera!     Where  have  you  lived?     In  what 
habitations  of  the  heathen  ?     I  thank  you,  shuddering ;  and 
am  ever  your  unseducible  friend,  SYDNEY  SMITH 

II 

T7NGAGED,  my  dear  Miss  Berry,  up  to  the  teeth  on 
•*— «  Saturday,  or  should  be  too  happy.  It  gives  me 
great  comfort  that  you  are  recovered.  I  would  not  have 
survived  you.  To  precipitate  myself  from  the  pulpit  of 
Paul  was  the  peculiar  mode  of  distruction  on  which  I 
had  resolved.  —  Ever  yours,  SYDNEY  SMITH 

250 


"  Once  is  Enough  " 

Cicero  entertains  Caesar       ^>-        *^        ^^         ^> 

(To  Atticus) 
THIS  visitor  so  much  dreaded!    And  yet  one  whose 


o 


visit  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  received ;  for  it  went  off 
most  pleasantly. 

When  we  came  the  evening  before,  on  the  i8th,  to  my 
neighbour  Philippus,  the  house  was  so  crowded  with 
soldiers,  that  there  was  hardly  a  vacant  room  for  Caesar 
to  sup  in.  There  were  about  two  thousand  of  them, 
which  made  me  feel  no  little  uneasiness  for  the  next 
day.  But  Barba  Cussius  set  me  at  ease.  He  assigned 
me  a  guard ;  made  the  rest  encamp  in  the  fields ;  so  that 
my  house  was  kept  clear.  On  the  iQth,  he  staid  with 
Philippus  till  i  o'clock ;  but  admitted  nobody.  He  was 
settling  accounts,  as  I  suppose,  with  Balbus.  He  then 
walked  by  the  shore  to  my  house.  At  two  he  took  the 
bath.  The  verses  on  Mamuna  were  then  read  to  him. 
His  countenance  was  unchanged.  He  was  rubbed,  and 
anointed,  and  then  he  disposed  himself  at  table,  after 
taking  an  emetic ;  and  ate  and  drank  in  a  very  free  and 
easy  manner;  for  he  was  entertained  hospitably  and 
elegantly ;  and  our  discourse  resembled  our  repast  in  its 
relish  and  seasoning. 

Besides  Caesar's  table,  his  attendants  were  well  pro- 
vided for  in  three  other  rooms ;  nor  was  there  any 
deficiency  in  the  provision  made  for  his  freedmen  of 
lower  quality,  and  his  slaves ;  but  those  of  the  better 
sort  were  elegantly  entertained.  Need  I  add  more.  I 
acted  as  man  with  man.  Yet  he  was  not  the  man  to 
whom  one  would  say  at  parting,  "  I  pray  let  me  have 
this  visit  repeated  when  you  come  this  way  again." 
Once  is  enough.  Not  a  word  passed  between  us  on 
business,  but  much  literary  talk.  To  make  short  of  the 
251 


"He  crackled  delicately" 

matter,  he  was  perfectly  pleased  and  easy.  He  talked 
of  spending  one  day  at  Puteoli ;  another  at  Baiae.  You 
have  thus  the  account  of  the  day's  entertainment  —  an 
entertainment  not  agreeable,  but  still  not  troublesome 
to  me.  I  shall  stay  here  a  little  longer,  and  then  to 
Tusculum. 

As  he  passed  by  Dolabella's  villa,  his  troops  marched 
close  by  the  side  of  this  house,  on  the  right  and  left ; 
which  was  done  nowhere  else. 

I  had  this  from  Nicias. 


Charles  Lamb  returns  thanks  for  a  little  pig  o      *^ 
(To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  D.  Collier) 

Twelfth  Day  \January  6],  1823 

rT^HE  pig  was  above  my  feeble  praise.     It  was  a  dear 
1     pigmy. 

There  was  some  contention  as  to  who  should  have  the 
ears,  but  in  spite  of  his  obstinacy  (deaf  as  these  little 
creatures  are  to  advice)  I  contrived  to  get  at  one  of 
them. 

It  came  in  boots  too,  which  I  took  as  a  favour. 
Generally  those  petty  toes,  pretty  toes!  are  missing. 
But  I  suppose  he  wore  them,  to  look  taller. 

He  must  have  been  the  least  of  his  race.  His  little 
foots  would  have  gone  into  the  silver  slipper.  I  take  him 
to  have  been  Chinese,  and  a  female.  — 

If  Evelyn  could  have  seen  him,  he  would  never  have 
farrowed  two  such  prodigious  volumes,  seeing  how  much 
good  can  be  contained  in  —  how  small  a  compass ! 

He  crackled  delicately. 

John  Collier  junr.  has  sent  me  a  Poem  which  (without 
252 


"  The  Smack  of  that  little  Ear " 

the  smallest  bias  from  the  aforesaid  present,  believe  me) 
I  pronounce  sterling. 

I  set  about  Evelyn,  and  finished  the  first  volume  in  the 
course  of  a  natural  day.  To-day  I  attack  the  second.  — 
Parts  are  very  interesting.  — 

I  left  a  blank  at  top  of  my  letter,  not  being  determined 
which  to  address  it  to,  so  Farmer  and  Farmers  wife  will 
please  to  divide  our  thanks.  May  your  granaries  be  full, 
and  your  rats  empty,  and  your  chickens  plurnp,  and 
your  envious  neighbours  lean,  and  your  labourers  busy, 
and  you  as  idle  and  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long  ! 

VIVE  L'AGRICULTURE  ! 

Frank  Field's  marriage  of  course  you  have  seen  in  the 
papers,  and  that  his  brother  Barren  is  expected  home. 

How  do  you  make  your  pigs  so  little  ? 
They  are  vastly  engaging  at  that  age. 

I  was  so  myself. 
Now  I  am  a  disagreeable  old  hog —  , 

A  middle-aged-gentleman-and-a-half. 

My  faculties,  thank  God,  are  not  much  impaired.  I  have 
my  sight,  hearing,  taste,  pretty  perfect ;  and  can  read  the 
Lord's  Prayer  in  the  common  type,  by  the  help  of  a 
candle,  without  making  many  mistakes. 

Believe  me,  while  my  faculties  last,  a  proper  appreciator 
of  your  many  kindnesses  in  this  way ;  and  that  the  last 
lingering  relish  of  past  flavours  upon  my  dying  memory 
will  be  the  smack  of  that  little  Ear.  It  was  the  left  ear, 
which  is  lucky.  Many  happy  returns  (not  of  the  Pig) 
but  of  the  New  Year  to  both.  — 

Mary  for  her  share  of  the  Pig  and  the  memoirs  desires 
to  send  the  same  —  Dear  Mr.  C.  and  Mrs.  C.  —  Yours 
truly,  C.  LAMB 

253 


A  Banquet  indeed 
Pliny  tells  Septitius  Clarus  what  he  has  missed         <^» 

HOW  happened  it,  my  friend,  that  you  did  not 
keep  your  engagement  the  other  night  to  sup 
with  me  ?  But  take  notice,  justice  is  to  be  had,  and 
I  expect  you  shall  fully  reimburse  me  the  expense  I 
was  at  to  treat  you ;  which,  let  me  tell  you,  was  no  small 
sum.  I  had  prepared,  you  must  know,  a  lettuce  apiece, 
three  snails,  two  eggs,  and  a  barley  cake,  with  some  sweet 
wine  and  snow;  the  snow  most  certainly  I  shall  charge 
to  your  account,  as  a  rarity  that  will  not  keep.  Besides 
all  these  curious  dishes,  there  were  olives  of  Andalusia, 
gourds,  shalots,  and  a  hundred  other  dainties  equally 
sumptuous.  You  should  likewise  have  been  entertained 
either  with  an  interlude,  the  rehearsal  of  a  poem,  or 
a  piece  of  music,  as  you  liked  best;  or  (such  was  my 
liberality)  with  all  three.  But  the  luxurious  delicacies  and 
Spanish  dancers  of  a  certain  —  I  know  not  who,  were,  it 
seems,  more  to  your  taste.  However,  I  shall  have  my 
revenge  of  you,  depend  upon  it  ;  —  in  what  manner,  shall 
be  at  present  a  secret.  In  good  truth  it  was  not  kind 
thus  to  mortify  your  friend,  —  I  had  almost  said  your- 
self;—  and,  upon  second  thoughts,  I  do  say  so:  for  how 
agreeably  should  we  have  spent  the  evening,  in  laughing, 
trifling,  and  deep  speculation  !  You  may  sup,  I  confess, 
at  many  places  more  splendidly;  but  you  can  nowhere 
be  treated  with  more  unconstrained  cheerfulness,  sim- 
plicity and  freedom;  only  make  the  experiment;  and  if 
you  do  not  ever  afterwards  prefer  my  table  to  any 
other,  never  favour  me  with  your  company  again. 
Farewell. 


254 


A  Piece  at  the  Ambigu 

The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  thanks  Mr.  Arthur  Kinglake 
for  a  book,  and  enlarges  on  digestion      ^>     *^> 

COMBE  FLOREY,  September  30,  1837 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  am  much  obliged  by  the  present  of 
your  brother's  book.  I  am  convinced  digestion  is 
the  great  secret  of  life ;  and  that  character,  talents, 
virtues,  and  qualities  are  powerfully  affected  by  beef, 
mutton,  pie-crust,  and  rich  soups.  I  have  often  thought 
I  could  feed  or  starve  men  into  many  virtues  and  vices, 
and  affect  them  more  powerfully  with  my  instruments 
of  cookery  than  Timotheus  could  do  formerly  with  his 
lyre.  —  Ever  yours  very  truly,  SYDNEY  SMITH 

Charles  Dickens  at  a  French  melodrama       -^      ^> 

49  CHAMPS  ELYSEES,  PARIS 
Monday,  January  7,  1856 

MY  DEAR  MARK  [LEMON],  — In  a  piece  at  the 
Ambigu,  called  \hzRentree  a  Paris,  a  mere  scene  in 
honour  of  the  return  of  the  troops  from  the  Crimea  the  other 
day,  there  is  a  novelty  which  I  think  it  worth  letting  you 
know  of,  as  it  is  easily  available,  either  for  a  serious  or  a 
comic  interest  —  the  introduction  of  a  supposed  electric  tele- 
graph. The  scene  is  the  railway  terminus  at  Paris,  with  the 
electric  telegraph  office  on  the  prompt  side,  and  the  clerks 
with  their  backs  to  the  audience  —  much  more  real  than  if 
they  were,  as  they  infallibly  would  be,  staring  about  the 
house  — working  the  needles;  and  the  little  bell  perpetu- 
ally ringing.  There  are  assembled  to  greet  the  soldiers, 
all  the  easily  and  naturally  imagined  elements  of  interest 
—  old  veteran  fathers,  young  children,  agonised  mothers, 
sisters  and  brothers,  girl  lovers  —  each  impatient  to  know 
255 


"  The  Brave  Electric  Telegraph  " 

of  his  or  her  own  object  of  solicitude.  Enter  to  these  a 
certain  marquis,  full  of  sympathy  for  all,  who  says  :  "  My 
friends,  I  am  one  of  you.  My  brother  has  no  commission 
yet.  He  is  a  common  soldier.  I  wait  for  him  as  well  as 
all  brothers  and  sisters  here  wait  for  their  brothers.  Tell 
me  whom  you  are  expecting."  Then  they  all  tell  him. 
Then  he  goes  into  the  telegraph-office;  and  sends  a 
message  down  the  line  to  know  how  long  the  troops  will 
be.  Bell  rings.  Answer  handed  out  on  slip  of  paper. 
"  Delay  on  the  line.  Troops  will  not  arrive  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour."  General  disappointment.  "  But  we  have  this 
brave  electric  telegraph,  my  friends,"  says  the  marquis. 
"  Give  me  your  little  messages,  and  I'll  send  them  off." 
General  rush  round  the  marquis.  Exclamations  :  "  How's 
Henri?"  "My  love  to  Georges;"  "Has  Guillaume  for- 
gotten Elise?  "  "  Is  my  son  wounded?  "  "  Is  my  brother 
promoted?"  etc.  etc.  Marquis  composes  tumult.  Sends 
message  —  such  a  regiment,  such  a  company  —  "  Elise's 
love  to  Georges."  Little  bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper 
handed  out  —  "  Georges  in  ten  minutes  will  embrace  his 
Elise.  Sends  her  a  thousand  kisses."  Marquis  sends 
message  —  such  a  regiment,  such  a  company  — "Is  my 
son  wounded  ? "  Little  bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper  handed 
out  — "  No.  He  has  not  yet  upon  him  those  marks  of 
bravery  in  the  glorious  service  of  his  country  which  his  dear 
old  father  bears  "  (father  being  lamed  and  invalided) .  Last 
of  all  the  widowed  mother.  Marquis  sends  message  — 
such  a  regiment,  such  a  company  —  "Is  my  only  son 
safe  ? "  Little  bell  rings.  Slip  of  paper  handed  out  —  "He 
was  first  upon  the  heights  of  Alma."  General  cheer.  Bell 
rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper  handed  out.  "  He  was 
made  a  sergeant  at  Inkermann."  Another  cheer.  Bell 
rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper  handed  out.  "  He  was 
made  colour-sergeant  at  Sebastopol."  Another  cheer. 

256 


Paris  under  Mud 

Bell  rings  again,  another  slip  of  paper  handed  out.  "  He 
was  the  first  man  who  leaped  with  the  French  banner  on 
the  Malakhoff  tower."  Tremendous  cheer.  Bell  rings 
again,  another  slip  of  paper  handed  out.  "  But  he  was 

struck  down  there  by  a  musket-ball,  and Troops 

have  proceeded.  Will  arrive  in  half  a  minute  after  this." 
Mother  abandons  all  hope ;  general  commiseration ; 
troops  rush  in,  down  a  platform ;  son  only  wounded,  and 
embraces  her. 

As  I  have  said,  and  as  you  will  see,  this  is  available  for 
any  purpose.  But  done  with  equal  distinction  and  rapidity, 
it  is  a  tremendous  effect,  and  got  by  the  simplest  means 
in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  in  the  piece,  but  it  was 
impossible  not  to  be  moved  and  excited  by  the  telegraph 
part  of  it. 

I  have  written  to  Beaucourt  about  taking  that  breezy 
house  —  a  little  improved  —  for  the  summer,  and  I  hope 
you  and  yours  will  come  there  often  and  stay  there  long. 
My  present  idea,  if  nothing  should  arise  to  uproot  me 
sooner,  is  to  stay  here  until  the  middle  of  May,  then 
plant  the  family  at  Boulogne,  and  come  with  Catherine 
and  Georgy  home  for  two  or  three  weeks. 

We  are  up  to  our  knees  in  mud  here.  Literally  in 
vehement  despair,  I  walked  down  the  avenue  outside  the 
Barriere  de  P^toile  here  yesterday,  and  went  straight  on 
among  the  trees.  I  came  back  with  top-boots  of  mud  on. 
Nothing  will  cleanse  the  streets. 

Numbers  of  men  and  women  are  for  ever  scooping  and 
sweeping  in  them,  and  they  are  always  one  lake  of  yellow 
mud.  All  my  trousers  go  to  the  tailor's  every  day,  and 
are  ravelled  out  at  the  heels  every  night.  Washing  is 
awful. 

Tell  Mrs.  Lemon,  with  my  love,  that  I  have  bought 
her  some  Eau  D'Or,  in  grateful  remembrance  of  her 

«  25; 


Gin  and  Fortitude 

knowing  what  it  is,  and  crushing  the  tyrant  of  her  existence 
by  resolutely  refusing  to  be  put  down  when  that  monster 
would  have  silenced  her.  You  may  imagine  the  loves 
and  messages  that  are  now  being  poured  in  upon  me  by 
all  of  them,  so  I  will  give  none  of  them ;  though  I  am 
pretending  to  be  very  scrupulous  about  it,  and  am  looking 
(I  have  no  doubt)  as  if  I  were  writing  them  down  with 
the  greatest  care.  —  Ever  affectionately. 


Thackeray  describes  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  his  adventures 
in  a  Paris  theatre  ^^       ^^       x^>       x^       ^^ 

PARIS,  Tuesday,  September  4,  1849 

T)ERHAPS  [through]  my  intolerable  meanness  and 
-L  blundering,  you  will  not  get  any  letter  from  me  till 
to-morrow.  On  Sunday,  the  man  who  was  to  take  the 
letter  failed  me ;  yesterday  I  went  with  it  in  a  cab  to  the 
Grande  Poste,  which  is  a  mile  off,  and  where  you  have  to 
go  to  pay.  The  cab-horse  was  lame,  and  we  arrived  two 
minutes  too  late ;  I  put  the  letter  into  the  unpaid  letter- 
box ;  I  dismissed  the  poor  old  broken  cab-horse,  behind 
which  it  was  agonising  to  sit ;  in  fine  it  was  a  failure. 

When  I  got  to  dinner  at  my  aunt's,  I  found  all  was 
over.  Mrs.  H.  died  on  Sunday  night  in  her  sleep, 
quite  without  pain,  or  any  knowledge  of  the  transition. 
I  went  and  sat  with  her  husband,  an  old  fellow  of 
seventy-two,  and  found  him  bearing  his  calamity  in  a 
very  honest  manly  way.  What  do  you  think  the  old 
gentleman  was  doing?  Well,  he  was  drinking  gin  and 
water,  and  I  had  some  too,  telling  his  valet  to  make 
me  some.  Man  thought  this  was  a  master  stroke 
of  diplomacy,  and  evidently  thinks  I  have  arrived  to 
take  possession  as  heir,  but  I  know  nothing  about 

258 


Small  Talk  from  Paris 

money  matters  as  yet,  and  think  that  the  old  gentleman 
at  least  will  have  the  enjoyment  of  my  aunt's  property 
during  life.  He  told  me  some  family  secrets,  in  which 
persons  of  repute  figure  not  honourably.  Ah!  they  shock 
me  to  think  of.  Pray,  have  you  ever  committed  any 
roguery  in  money  matters?  Has  William?  Have  I? 
I  am  more  likely  to  do  it  than  he,  that  honest  man,  not 
having  his  resolution  or  self-denial.  But  I've  not  as 
yet,  beyond  the  roguery  of  not  saving  perhaps,  which 
is  knavish  too.  I  am  very  glad  I  came  to  see  my 
dearest  old  aunt.  She  is  such  a  kind  tender  creature, 
laws  bless  us,  how  fond  she  would  be  of.  you.  I  was 
going '  to  begin  about  William  and  say  "  Do  you  re- 
member a  friend  of  mine  who  came  to  dine  at  the 
Thermes;  and  sang  the  song  about  the  Mogul,  and 
the  blue  bottle  fly"  but  modesty  forbade,  and  I  was 
dumb. 

Since  this  was  written  in  the  afternoon,  I  suppose  if 
there  has  been  one  virtuous  man  in  Paris,  it  is  madame's 
most  obajient  servant.  I  went  to  sit  with  Mr.  H.,  and 
found  him  taking  what  he  calls  his  tiffin  in  great 
comfort  (tiffin  is  the  meal  which  I  have  sometimes  had 
the  honour  of  sharing  with  you  at  one  o'clock)  and  this 
transacted, and  I  didn't  have  any  tiffin ;  having  con- 
sumed a  good  breakfast  two  hours  previously  —  I  went 
up  a  hundred  stairs  at  least,  to  Miss  B.  H.'s  airy  apart- 
ment, and  found  her  and  her  sister,  and  sat  for  an 
hour  —  she  asked  after  you  so  warmly  that  I  was  quite 
pleased ;  she  said  she  had  the  highest  respect  for  you. 
I  was  glad  to  find  somebody  who  knew  you ;  and  all  I 
can  say  is,  if  you  fancy  I  like  being  here  better  than  in 
London,  you  are  in  a  pleasing  error. 

Then  I  went  to  see  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  then  to 
have  a  very  good  dinner  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  where 
259 


Panting  for  Dumas 

I  had  pot  age  a  la  pour  part,  think  of  pour  part  soup.  We 
had  it  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  name,  and  it  was 
uncommonly  good.  Then  back  to  old  H.  again,  to 
bawl  into  his  ears  for  an  hour  and  a  half;  then  to 
drink  tea  with  my  aunt  —  why,  life  has  been  a  series  of 
sacrifices  to-day,  and  I  must  be  written  up  in  the  book 
of  good  works.  For  I  should  have  liked  to  go  to  the 
play,  and  follow  my  own  devices  best,  but  for  that  stern 
sentiment  of  duty,  which  fitfully  comes  over  the  most 
abandoned  of  men  at  times. 

All  the  time  I  was  with  Mr.  H.  in  the  morning,  what 
do  you  think  they  were  doing  in  the  next  room?  It 
was  like  a  novel.  They  were  rapping  at  a  coffin  in  the 
bedroom,  but  he  was  too  deaf  to  hear,  and  seems  too 
old  to  care  very  much.  Ah!  dear  lady,  I  hope  you 
are  sleeping  happily  at  this  hour,  and  you  and  Mr. 
Williams,  and  another  party  who  is  nameless,  shall 
have  all  the  benefits  of  an  old  sinner's  prayers. 

I  suppose  I  was  too  virtuous  on  Tuesday,  for  yesterday 
I  got  back  to  my  old  selfish  ways  again,  and  did  what  I 
liked  from  morning  till  night. 

This  self-indulgence  though  entire  was  not  criminal; 
at  first  at  least,  but  I  shall  come  to  the  painful  part  of 
my  memoirs  presently.  All  the  forenoon  I  read  with 
intense  delight,  a  novel  called  Le  Vico-mte  de  Bragelotine, 
a  continuation  of  the  famous  Mousquetaires  and  just  as 
interesting ;  keeping  me  panting  from  volume  to  volume, 
and  longing  for  more. 

This  done,  and  after  a  walk  and  some  visits,  read 
more  novels,  David  Copperfield  to  wit,  in  which  there 
is  a  charming  bit  of  insanity,  and  which  I  begin  to 
believe  is  the  very  best  thing  the  author  has  yet  done. 
Then  to  the  Varittes  Theatre,  to  see  the  play  ChamiUon, 
after  which  all  Paris  is  running,  a  general  satire  upon 
260 


W.   M.  T.  behind  the  Scenes 

the  last  60  years.  Everything  is  satirised,  Louis  xvi., 
the  Convention,  the  Empire,  the  Restoration,  etc. ;  the 
barricades,  at  which  these  people  were  murdering  each 
other  only  yesterday — it's  awful,  immodest,  surpasses 
my  cynicism  altogether.  At  the  end  of  the  piece  they 
pretend  to  bring  in  the  author,  and  a  little  child  who 
can  just  speak,  comes  in  and  sings  a  satiric  song,  in  a 
feeble,  tender,  infantine  pipe,  which  seemed  to  me  as 
impious  as  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  piece.  They 
don't  care  for  anything,  not  religion,  not  bravery,  not 
liberty,  not  great  men,  not  modesty.  Ah!  madame, 
what  a  great  moralist  somebody  is,  and  what  moighty 
foine  principles  entoirely  he  has  ! 

But  now,  with  a  blush  upon  my  damask  cheek,  I 
come  to  the  adventures  of  the  day.  You  must  know 
that  I  went  to  the  play  with  an  old  comrade,  Roger 
de  Beauvoir,  an  ex-dandy  and  man  of  letters,  who 
talked  incessantly  during  the  whole  of  dinner-time,  as 
I  remember,  though  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  recall 
what  he  said.  Well,  we  went  together  to  the  green- 
room. I  have  never  been  in  a  French  green-room 
before,  and  was  not  much  excited,  but  when  he  proposed 
to  take  me  to  the  loge  of  a  beautiful  actress  with  spark- 
ling eyes  and  the  prettiest  little  retroussb  nosey-posey  in 
the  world,  I  said  to  the  regisseur  of  the  theatre,  "lead 
on ! "  and  we  went  through  passages  and  upstairs  to 
the  loge,  which  is  not  a  box,  but  O!  gracious  goodness, 

a  dressing  room ! 

She  had  just  taken  off  her  rouge,  her  complexion  was 
only  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant,  perhaps  the 
peignoir  of  black  satin  which  partially  enveloped  her 
perfect  form,  only  served  to  heighten  etc.,  which  it 
could  but  partially  do  etc.  Her  lips  are  really  as  red 
as  etc.,  and  not  covered  with  paint  at  all.  Her  voice 
261 


The  Actress's  Invitation 

is  delicious.  Her  eyes  O!  they  flashed  etc.  upon 
me,  and  I  felt  my  etc.  beating  so  that  I  could  hardly 
speak.  I  pitched  in,  if  you  will  permit  me  the  phrase, 
two  or  three  compliments  however,  very  large  and 
heavy,  of  the  good  only  English  sort,  and  O!  mon  dieu 
she  has  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her.  Shall  I  go,  or 
shan't  I?  Shall  I  go  this  very  day  at  4  o'clock  or 
shall  I  not?  Well,  I  won't  tell  you,  I  will  put  up  my 
letter  before  4,  and  keep  this  piece  of  intelligence  for 
the  next  packet. 

The  funeral  takes  place  to-morrow,  and  as  I  don't 
seem  to  do  much  work  here,  I  shall  be  soon  probably 
on  the  wing,  but  perhaps  I  will  take  a  week's  touring 
somewhere  about  France,  Tours,  and  Nantes  perhaps 
or  elsewhere,  or  anywhere,  I  don't  know,  but  I  hope 
before  I  go  to  hear  once  more  from  you.  I  am  happy 
indeed  to  hear  how  well  you  are.  What  a  shame  it 
was  to  assault  my  dear  lady  with  my  blue  devils. 
Who  could  help  looking  to  the  day  of  failing  powers, 
but  if  I  last  a  few  years,  no  doubt  I  can  get  a  shelter 
somewhere  against  that  certain  adversity,  and  so  I  ought 
not  to  show  you  my  glum  face  or  my  dismal  feelings. 
That's  the  worst  of  habit  and  confidence.  You  are  so 
kind  to  me  that  I  like  to  tell  you  all,  and  to  think  that 
in  good  or  ill  fortune  I  have  your  sympathy.  Here's  an 
opportunity  for  sentiment,  here's  just  a  little  bit  of  the 
page  left  to  say  something  neat  and  pretty. 

Je  les  me'prise  les  jolis  mots,  vous  en  ai-je  jamais 
fait  de  ma  vie?  Je  les  laisse  a  Monsieur  Bullar  et 
ses  pareils  —  j'en  ferai  pour  Mademoiselle  Page,  pour 
la  ravissante  la  semblante  la  fretillante  Adele  (c'est 
ainsi  qu'elle  se  nomme)  mais  pour  vous  ?  Allons  —  partons 
—  il  est  quatre  heures  —  fermons  la  lettre  —  disons  adieu, 
ramie  et  moi  —  vous  m'ecrirez  avant  mon  depart  n'est- 
262 


Elia  as  Ariel 

ce-pas?  Allez  bien,  dormez  bien,  marchez  bien,  sll 
vous  plait,  et  gardy  mwaw  ung  petty  moreso  der  voter 
cure.  W.  M.  T. 


Charles  Lamb  confesses  to  a  night  of  it        ^> 
(To  Dr.  Asbury) 

DEAR  SIR, —  It  is  an  observation  of  a  wise  man 
that  "  moderation  is  best  in  all  things."  I  cannot 
agree  with  him  "  in  liquor."  There  is  a  smoothness  and 
oiliness  in  wine  that  makes  it  go  down  by  a  natural 
channel,  which  I  am  positive  was  made  for  that  descend- 
ing. Else,  why  does  not  wine  choke  us  ?  could  Nature 
have  made  that  sloping  lane,  not  to  facilitate  the  down- 
going?  She  does  nothing  in  vain.  You  know  that 
better  than  I.  You  know  how  often  she  has  helped 
you  at  a  dead  lift,  and  how  much  better  entitled  she 
is  to  a  fee  than  yourself  sometimes,  when  you  carry  off 
the  credit.  Still  there  is  something  due  to  manners 
and  customs,  and  I  should  apologise  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Asbury  for  being  absolutely  carried  home  upon  a 
man's  shoulders  thro'  Silver  Street,  up  Parson's  Lane, 
by  the  Chapels  (which  might  have  taught  me  better), 
and  then  to  be  deposited  like  a  dead  log  at  Gaffar 
Westwood's,  who  it  seems  does  not  "insure"  against 
intoxication.  Not  that  the  mode  of  conveyance  is 
objectionable.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  more  easy  than 
a  one-horse  chaise.  Ariel  in  the  Tempest  says 

"  On  a  Bat's  back  do  I  fly,  after  sunset  merrily." 

Now  I  take   it   that   Ariel   must  sometimes   have   stayed 
out    late  of  nights.     Indeed,   he  pretends   that   "where 

263 


"  And  what  is  Reason  ?  " 

the  bee  sucks,  there  lurks  he,"  as  much  as  to  say  that 
his  suction  is  as  innocent  as  that  little  innocent  (but 
damnably  stinging  when  he  is  provoked)  winged  creature. 
But  I  take  it,  that  Ariel  was  fond  of  metheglin,  of  which 
the  Bees  are  notorious  Brewers.  But  then  you  will 
say :  What  a  shocking  sight  to  see  a  middle-aged 
gentleman-and-a-half  riding  upon  a  Gentleman's  back 
up  Parson's  Lane  at  midnight!  Exactly  the  time  for 
that  sort  of  conveyance,  when  nobody  can  see  him, 
nobody  but  Heaven  and  his  own  conscience;  now 
Heaven  makes  fools,  and  don't  expect  much  from  her 
own  creation ;  and  as  for  conscience,  She  and  I  have 
long  since  come  to  a  compromise.  I  have  given  up 
false  modesty,  and  she  allows  me  to  abate  a  little  of 
the  true.  I  like  to  be  liked,  but  I  don't  care  about 
being  respected.  I  don't  respect  myself.  But,  as  I 
was  saying,  I  thought  he  would  have  let  me  down 
just  as  we  got  to  Lieutenant  Barker's  Coal-shed  (or 
emporium),  but  by  a  cunning  jerk  I  eased  myself,  and 
righted  my  posture.  I  protest,  I  thought  myself  in  a 
palanquin,  and  never  felt  myself  so  grandly  carried. 
It  was  a  slave  under  me.  There  was  I,  all  but  my 
reason.  And  what  is  reason?  and  what  is  the  loss  of 
it?  and  how  often  in  a  day  do  we  do  without  it,  just 
as  well?  Reason  is  only  counting,  two  and  two  makes 
four.  And  if  on  my  passage  home,  I  thought  it  made 
five,  what  matter?  Two  and  two  will  just  make  four, 
as  it  always  did,  before  I  took  the  finishing  glass  that 
did  my  business.  My  sister  has  begged  me  to  write 
an  apology  to  Mrs.  A.  and  you  for  disgracing  your 
party ;  now  it  does  seem  to  me,  that  I  rather  honoured 
your  party,  for  every  one  that  was  not  drunk  (and  one 
or  two  of  the  ladies,  I  am  sure,  were  not)  must  have 
been  set  off  greatly  in  the  contrast  to  me.  I  was  the 

264 


The  End  is  All 

scapegoat.  The  soberer  they  seemed.  By  the  way, 
is  magnesia  good  on  these  occasions  ?  Hi  pol : 

med :  sum :  ante  noct :  in  rub :  can : .  I  am  no 
licentiate,  but  know  enough  of  simples  to  beg  you  to 
send  me  a  draught  after  this  model.  But  still  you 
will  say  (or  the  men  and  maids  at  your  house  will  say) 
that  it  is  not  a  seemly  sight  for  an  old  gentleman  to 
go  home  pick-a-back.  Well,  may  be  it  is  not.  But  I 
never  studied  grace.  I  take  it  to  be  a  mere  superficial 
accomplishment.  I  regard  more  the  internal  acquisi- 
tions. The  great  object  after  supper  is  to  get  home, 
and  whether  that  is  obtained  in  a  horizontal  posture  or 
perpendicular  (as  foolish  men  and  apes  affect  for  dignity), 
I  think  is  little  to  the  purpose.  The  end  is  always 
greater  than  the  means.  Here  I  am,  able  to  compose 
a  sensible  rational  apology,  and  what  signifies  how  I 
got  here?  I  have  just  sense  enough  to  remember  I  was 
very  happy  last  night,  and  to  thank  our  kind  host  and 
hostess,  and  that's  sense  enough,  I  hope. 

CHARLES  LAMB 

N.B.  —  What  is  good  for  a  desperate  head-ache? 
Why,  patience,  and  a  determination  not  to  mind  being 
miserable  all  day  long.  And  that  I  have  made  my 
mind  up  to.  So,  here  goes.  It  is  better  than  not 
being  alive  at  all,  which  I  might  have  been,  had  your 
man  toppled  me  down  at  Lieut.  Barker's  Coal-shed. 
My  sister  sends  her  sober  compliments  to  Mrs.  A. 
She  is  not  much  the  worse.  —  Yours  truly, 

C.  LAMB 


265 


More  Epistolary  Sententiae 

EMEMBER  my  unalterable  maxim,  when  we  love,  we 
have  always  something  to  say. 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 

THE  English  do  not  generally  love  Letter  writing :  and 
very  few  of  us  like  it  the  more  as  we  get  older. 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

7j  P.M.  —  After  a  stroll  in  mine  own  Garden,  under  the 
moon  —  shoes  kicked  off — Slippers  and  Dressing  Gown 
on  —  a  Pinch  of  Snuff —  and  hey  for  a  Letter  —  to  my  only 
London  Correspondent!  IBID 

I  HAVE  a  constancy  in  my  nature  that  makes  me  always 
remember  my  old  friends. 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU 


A  Conclusion 


(Pope  to  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu) 

YOUR  will  be   done!  but   God  send   it   may   be  the 
same  with  mine. 


266 


XII 

HUMORISTS   AND  ODDITIES 

The  Ladies'  Battle,  in  four  letters       ^>       ^       ^y 

(Lady  Seymour,  the  Queen  of  Beauty  at  the  Eglinton 
Tournament  and  R.  B.  Sheridan's  granddaughter, 
and  Lady  Shuckburgh  exchange  notes  as  to  Mary 
Stead  man) 

I 

LADY  SEYMOUR  presents  her  compliments  to  Lady 
Shuckburgh,  and  would  be  obliged  to  her  for  the 
character  of  Mary  Steadman,  who  states  that  she  has 
lived  twelve  months,  and  still  is,  in  Lady  Shuckburgh's 
establishment.  Can  Mary  Steadman  cook  plain  dishes 
well,  and  make  bread,  and  is  she  honest,  sober,  willing, 
cleanly,  and  good  tempered?  Lady  Seymour  will  also 
like  to  know  the  reason  she  leaves  Lady  Shuckburgh's 
house.  Direct  under  care  to  Lord  Seymour,  Meriden 
Bradley,  Wiltshire. 

II 

Lady  Shuckburgh   presents   her  compliments   to  Lady 
Seymour ;  her  ladyship's  letter,  dated  October  28th,  only 

267 


Seymore  v.  Shuckburgh 

reached  her  yesterday,  November  3rd.  Lady  Shuck- 
burgh  was  unacquainted  with  the  name  of  the  kitchen- 
maid  until  mentioned  by  Lady  Seymour,  as  it  is  her 
custom  neither  to  apply  for,  nor  give,  characters  to  any 
of  the  under  servants,  this  being  always  done  by  the 
housekeeper,  Mrs.  Couch,  and  this  was  well  known  to 
the  young  woman.  Therefore  Lady  Shuckburgh  is 
surprised  at  her  referring  any  lady  to  her  for  a  character. 
Lady  Shuckburgh,  keeping  a  professed  cook,  as  well  as 
a  housekeeper,  in  her  establishment,  it  is  not  very 
probable  she  herself  should  know  anything  of  the  abilities 
or  merits  of  the  under  servants ;  she  is  therefore  unable 
to  reply  to  Lady  Seymour's  note.  Lady  Shuckburgh 
cannot  imagine  Mary  Steadman  to  be  capable  of 
cooking  anything,  except  for  the  servants'  hall  table. 
November  4th. 

Ill 

Lady  Seymour  presents  her  compliments  to  Lady 
Shuckburgh,  and  begs  she  will  order  her  housekeeper, 
Mrs.  Couch,  to  send  the  girl's  character,  otherwise 
another  young  woman  will  be  sought  for  elsewhere,  as 
Lady  Seymour's  children  cannot  remain  without  their 
dinners  because  Lady  Shuckburgh,  keeping  a  professed 
cook  and  housekeeper,  thinks  a  knowledge  of  the  details 
of  her  establishment  beneath  her  notice.  Lady  Seymour 
understands  from  Steadman  that,  in  addition  to  her  other 
talents,  she  was  actually  capable  of  cooking  food  for  the 
little  Shuckburghs  to  partake  of  when  hungry. 

IV 

MADAM,  —  Lady    Shuckburgh     has    directed     me    to 
acquaint  you  that  she  declines  answering  your  note,  the 
268 


The  Death  of  Amos  Cottle 

vulgarity  of  which  she  thinks  beneath  her  contempt,  and 
although  it  may  be  characteristic  of  the  Sheridans  to  be 
vulgar,  coarse,  and  witty,  it  is  not  that  of  a  lady,  unless 
she  chances  to  have  been  born  in  a  garret  and  bred  in  a 
kitchen.  Mary  Steadman  informs  me  that  your  ladyship 
does  not  keep  either  a  cook  or  housekeeper,  and  that  you 
only  require  a  girl  who  can  cook  a  muttton  chop ;  if  so,  I 
apprehend  that  Mary  Steadman,  or  any  other  scullion, 
will  be  found  fully  equal  to  the  establishment  of  the  Queen 
of  Beauty.  — I  am,  Madam,  your  Ladyship's  etc.  etc., 

ELIZABETH  COUCH 


Charles  Lamb  softens  the  loss  of  a  brother  ^>    "Qy 
(To  Coleridge) 

October  9,  1800 

I  SUPPOSE  you  have  heard  of  the  death  of  Amos 
Cottle. 

I  paid  a  solemn  visit  of  condolence  to  his  brother, 
accompanied  by  George  Dyer,  of  burlesque  memory. 
I  went,  trembling  to  see  poor  Cottle  so  immediately  upon 
the  event. 

He  was  in  black ;  and  his  younger  brother  was  also  in 
black. 

Everything  wore  an  aspect  suitable  to  the  respect  due 
to  the  freshly  dead.  For  some  time  after  our  entrance, 
nobody  spoke  till  George  modestly  put  in  a  question, 
whether  Alfred  was  likely  to  sell. 

This  was  Lethe  to  Cottle,  and  his  poor  face,  wet  with 
tears,  and  his  kind  eye  brightened  up  in  a  moment. 
Now  I  felt  it  was  my  cue  to  speak. 

I  had  to  thank  him  for  a  present  of  a  magnificent 
269 


Beslabbering  "  Alfred  " 

copy,  and  had  promised  to  send  him  my  remarks,  —  the 
least  thing  I  could  do ;  so  I  ventured  to  suggest,  that  I 
perceived  a  considerable  improvement  he  had  made  in 
his  first  book  since  the  state  in  which  he  first  read  it  to 
me.  Joseph  until  now  had  sat  with  his  knees  cowering 
in  by  the  fire-place,  and  with  great  difficulty  of  body 
shifted  the  same  round  to  the  corner  of  a  table  where  I 
was  sitting,  and  first  stationing  one  thigh  over  the  other, 
which  is  his  sedentary  mood,  and  placidly  fixing  his 
benevolent  face  right  against  mine,  waited  my  observa- 
tions. 

At  that  moment  it  came  strongly  into  my  mind,  that 
I  had  got  Uncle  Toby  before  me,  he  looked  so  kind  and 
good. 

I  could  not  say  an  unkind  thing  of  Alfred.  So  I  set 
my  memory  to  work  to  recollect  what  was  the  name  of 
Alfred's  Queen,  and  with  some  adroitness  recalled  the 
well-known  sound  to  Cottle's  ears  of  Alswitha. 

At  that  moment  I  could  perceive  that  Cottle  had 
forgot  his  brother  was  so  lately  become  a  blessed  spirit. 
In  the  language  of  mathematicians,  the  author  was  as  9, 
the  brother  as  I. 

I  felt  my  cue,  and  strong  pity  working  at  the  root  I 
went  to  work,  and  beslabbered  Alfred  with  most  un- 
qualified praise,  or  only  qualifying  my  praise  by  the 
occasional  politic  interposition  of  an  exception  taken 
against  trivial  faults,  slips,  and  human  imperfections, 
which,  by  removing  the  appearance  of  insincerity,  did 
but  in  truth  heighten  the  relish. 

Perhaps  I  might  have  spared  that  refinement,  for 
Joseph  was  in  a  humour  to  hope  and  believe  all  things. 

What  I  said  was  beautifully  supported,  corroborated 
and  confirmed  by  the  stupidity  of  his  brother  on  my  left 
hand,  and  by  George  on  my  right,  who  has  an  utter 
270 


"  All    Men  are  Fine  Geniuses  " 

incapacity  of  comprehending  that  there  can  be  anything 
bad  in  poetry. 

All  poems  are  good  poems  to  George ;  all  men  are 
fine  geniuses. 

So  what  with  my  actual  memory,  of  which  I  made  the 
most,  and  Cottle's  own  helping  me  out,  for  I  had  really 
forgotten  a  good  deal  of  Alfred,  I  made  shift  to  discuss 
the  most  essential  parts  entirely  to  the  satisfaction  of  its 
author,  who  repeatedly  declared  that  he  loved  nothing 
better  than  candid  criticism.  Was  I  a  candid  greyhound 
now  for  all  this  ?  or  did  I  do  right  ?  I  believe  I  did. 
The  effect  was  luscious  to  my  conscience. 

For  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  Amos  was  no  more 
heard  of,  till  George  revived  the  subject  by  inquiring 
whether  some  account  should  not  be  drawn  up  by 
the  friends  of  the  deceased  to  be  inserted  in  Philips' 
Monthly  Obituary;  adding,  that  Amos  was  estimable 
both  for  his  head  and  heart,  and  would  have  made  a  fine 
poet  if  he  had  lived. 

To  the  expediency  of  this  measure  Cottle  fully  assented, 
but  could  not  help  adding  that  he  always  thought  that 
the  qualities  of  his  brother's  heart  exceeded  those  of  his 
head. 

I  believe  his  brother,  when  living,  had  formed  precisely 
the  same  idea  of  him ;  and  I  apprehend  the  world  will 
assent  to  both  judgments. 

I  rather  guess  that  the  brothers  were  poetical  rivals. 
I  judged  so  when  I  saw  them  together. 

Poor  Cottle,  I  must  leave  him  after  his  short  dream  to 
muse  again  upon  his  poor  brother,  for  whom  I  am  sure 
in  secret  he  will  yet  shed  many  a  tear.  Now  send  me 
in  return  some  Greta  News.  C.  L. 


271 


At  Weston  Underwood 

William  Cowper  receives    a  visitor,   and  becomes  a 
prophet  in  his  own  country.     ^>         -^y        ^> 

(To  Lady  Hesketh) 

THE  LODGE,  November  27,  1787 

IT  is  the  part  of  wisdom,  my  dearest  cousin,  to  sit  down 
contented  under  the  demands  of  necessity,  because 
they  are  such. 

I  am  sensible  that  you  cannot  in  my  uncle's  present 
infirm  state,  and  of  which  it  is  not  possible  to  expect  any 
considerable  amendment,  indulge  either  us,  or  yourself, 
with  a  journey  to  Weston.  Yourself  I  say,  both  because 
I  know  it  will  give  you  pleasure  to  see  Caustdice  mi1  once 
more,  especially  in  the  comfortable  abode  where  you 
have  placed  him,  and  because  after  so  long  an  imprison- 
ment in  London,  you  who  love  the  country  and  have  a 
taste  for  it,  would  of  course  be  glad  to  return  to  it.  For 
my  own  part,  to  me  it  is  ever  new,  and  though  I  have 
now  been  an  inhabitant  of  this  village  a  twelvemonth,  and 
have  during  the  half  of  that  time  been  at  liberty  to 
expatiate,  and  to  make  discoveries,  I  am  daily  finding 
out  fresh  scenes  and  walks,  which  you  would  never  be 
satisfied  with  enjoying  —  some  of  them  are  unapproachable 
by  you  either  on  foot  or  in  your  carriage.  Had  you 
twenty  toes  (whereas  I  suppose  you  have  but  ten)  you 
could  not  reach  them ;  and  coach  wheels  have  never 
been  seen  there  since  the  flood.  Before  it  indeed,  (as 
Burnet  says  that  the  earth  was  than  perfectly  free  from 
all  inequalities  in  its  surface,)  they  might  have  been  seen 
there  every  day.  We  have  other  walks  both  upon  hill- 
tops and  in  valleys  beneath,  some  of  which  by  the  help 

1  The  appellation  which  Sir  Thomas  Hesketh  used  to  give  him 
in  jest,  when  he  was  of  the  Temple.  —  Southey's  note. 
272 


The  Bills  of  Mortality 

of  your  carriage,  and  many  of  them  without  its  help, 
would  be  always  at  your  command. 

On  Monday  morning  last,  Sam  brought  me  word  that 
there  was  a  man  in  the  kitchen  who  desired  to  speak 
with  me. 

I  ordered  him  in.  A  plain,  decent,  elderly  figure  made 
its  appearance,  and  being  desired  to  sit,  spoke  as 
follows :  "  Sir,  I  am  clerk  of  the  parish  of  All-Saints,  in 
Northampton ;  brother  of  Mr.  Cox  the  upholsterer.  It  is 
customary  for  the  person  in  my  office  to  annex  to  a  bill 
of  mortality,  which  he  publishes  at  Christmas,  a  copy  of 
verses.  You  would  do  me  a  great  favour,  sir,  if  you 
would  furnish  me  with  one." 

To  this  I  replied :  "  Mr.  Cox,  you  have  several  men  of 
genius  in  your  town,  why  have  you  not  applied  to  some 
of  them?  There  is  a  namesake  of  yours  in  particular, 
Cox  the  statuary,  who,  everybody  knows,  is  a  first-rate 
maker  of  verses.  He  surely  is  the  man  of  all  the  world 
for  your  purpose." 

"Alas  !  sir,  I  have  heretofore  borrowed  help  from  him, 
but  he  is  a  gentleman  of  so  much  reading,  that  the  people 
of  our  town  cannot  understand  him." 

I  confess  to  you,  my  dear,  I  felt  all  the  force  of  the 
compliment  implied  in  this  speech,  and  was  almost 
ready  to  answer,  Perhaps,  my  good  friend,  they  may 
find  me  unintelligible  too  for  the  same  reason.  But 
on  asking  him  whether  he  had  walked  over  to  Weston 
on  purpose  to  implore  the  assistance  of  my  Muse,  and  on 
his  replying  in  the  affirmative,  I  felt  my  mortified  vanity 
a  little  consoled,  and  pitying  the  poor  man's  distress, 
which  appeared  to  be  considerable,  promised  to  supply 
him* 

The  waggon  has  accordingly  gone  this  day  to 
Northampton  loaded  in  part  with  my  effusions  in  the 
T  273 


The  Dainty  Beggar 

mortuary  style.  A  fig  for  poets  who  write  epitaphs  upon 
individuals  !  I  have  written  one,  that  serves  two  hundred 
persons. 

A  few  days  since  I  received  a  very  obliging  letter  from 
Mr.  Mackenzie.  He  tells  me  that  his  own  papers,  which 
are  by  far,  he  is  sorry  to  say  it,  the  most  numerous,  are 
marked  V.I.Z. 

Accordingly,  my  dear,  I  am  happy  to  find  that  I  am 
engaged  in  a  correspondence  with  Mr.  Viz,  a  gentleman 
for  whom  I  have  always  entertained  the  profoundest 
veneration.  But  the  serious  fact  is,  that  the  papers 
distinguished  by  those  signatures  have  ever  pleased  me 
most,  and  struck  me  as  the  work  of  a  sensible  man,  who 
knows  the  world  well,  and  has  more  of  Addison's  delicate 
humour  than  anybody. 

A  poor  man  begged  food  at  the  Hall  lately.  The  cook 
gave  him  some  vermicelli  soup.  He  ladled  it  about 
some  time  with  the  spoon,  and  then  returned  it  to  her, 
saying,  "I  am  a  poor  man,  it  is  true,  and  I  am  very 
hungry,  but  yet  I  cannot  eat  broth  with  maggots  in  it." 

Once  more,  my  dear,  a  thousand  thanks  for  your  box 
full  of  good  things,  useful  things,  and  beautiful  things. — 
Yours  ever,  W.  C. 


A  Parish  Clerk   thinks  better  of  it,  and    withdraws 
his  threats        ^^         ^>         ^>         ^>         ^^ 

DEAR  AND  REV.  SIR,  — I  avail  myself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  troubling  your  honour  with  these  lines, 
which  I  hope  you  will  excuse,  which  is  the  very  sentiments 
of  your  humble  servant's  heart.     Ignorantly,    rashly,  but 
reluctantly,   I   gave    you    warning    to    leave  your  highly 
respected  office  and   most  amiable  duty,  as  being  your 
274 


Questions  and  Answers 

servant,  and  clerk  of  this  your  most  well  wished  parish, 
and  place  of  my  succour  and  support. 

But,  dear  Sir,  I  well  know  it  was  no  fault  of  yours 
nor  from  any  of  my  most  worthy  parishioners.  It  were 
because  I  thought  I  were  not  sufficiently  paid  for  the 
interments  of  the  silent  dead.  But  will  I  be  a  Judas  and 
leave  the  house  of  my  God,  the  place  where  His  Honour 
dwelleth  for  a  few  pieces  of  money?  No.  Will  I  be  a 
Peter  and  deny  myself  of  an  office  in  His  Sanctuary  and 
cause  me  to  weep  bitterly?  No.  Can  I  be  so  unreason- 
able as  to  deny,  if  I  like  and  am  well,  to  ring  that  solemn 
bell  that  speaks  the  departure  of  a  soul?  No.  Can  I 
leave  digging  the  tombs  of  my  neighbours  and  acquaint- 
ances which  have  many  a  time  made  me  shudder  and 
think  of  my  mortality,  when  I  have  dug  up  the  mortal  re- 
mains of  some  perhaps  as  I  well  knew?  No.  And  can 
I  so  abruptly  forsake  the  service  of  my  beloved  Church  of 
which  I  have  not  failed  to  attend  every  Sunday  for  these 
seven  and  a  half  years?  No.  Can  I  leave  waiting  upon 
you  a  minister  of  that  Being  that  sitteth  between  the 
Cherubim  and  flieth  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind?  No. 
Can  I  leave  the  place  where  most  our  holy  services  nobly 
calls  forth  and  says,  "  Those  whom  God  have  joined 
together "  (and  being  as  I  am  a  married  man)  "  let  no 
man  put  asunder"?  No.  And  can  I  leave  that  ordinance 
where  you  say  then  and  there  "I  baptize  thee  in  the 
name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,"  and  he  becomes  regenerate  and  is  grafted  into 
the  body  of  Christ's  Church  ?  No.  And  can  I  think  of 
leaving  off  cleaning  at  Easter  the  House  of  God  in  which 
I  take  such  delight,  in  looking  down  her  aisles  and 
beholding  her  sanctuaries  and  the  table  of  the  Lord  ? 
No.  And  can  I  forsake  taking  part  in  the  service  of 
Thanksgiving  of  women  after  childbirth,  when  mine  own 
275 


Complete  Surrender 

wife  has  been  delivered  ten  times?  No.  And  can  I 
leave  off  waiting  on  the  congregation  of  the  Lord  which 
you  well  know,  Sir,  is  my  delight?  No.  And  can  I 
forsake  the  Table  of  the  Lord  at  which  I  have  feasted 
I  suppose  some  thirty  times?  No.  And,  dear  Sir,  can 
I  ever  forsake  you  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me?  No. 
And  I  well  know  you  will  not  entreat  me  to  leave? 
neither  to  return  from  following  after  you,  for  where 
you  pray  there  will  I  pray,  where  you  worship  there 
will  I  worship.  Your  Church  shall  be  my  Church, 
your  people  shall  be  my  people  and  your  God  my 
God.  By  the  waters  of  Babylon  am  I  to  sit  down  and 
weep  and  leave  thee,  O  my  Church  !  and  hang  my 
harp  upon  the  trees  that  grow  therein?  No.  One 
thing  have  I  desired  of  the  Lord  that  I  will  require 
even  that  I  may  dwell  in  the  House  of  the  Lord  and  to 
visit  His  temple.  More  to  be  desired  of  me,  O  my 
Church,  than  gold,  yea  than  fine  gold,  sweeter  to  me  than 
honey  and  the  honeycomb. 

Now,  kind  Sir,  the  very  desire  of  my  heart  is  still  to 
wait  upon  you.  Please  tell  the  Churchwardens  all  is 
reconciled,  and  if  not,  I  will  get  me  away  into  the 
wilderness,  and  hide  me  in  the  desert,  in  the  cleft  of  the 
rock.  But  I  hope  still  to  be  your  Gehazi,  and  when  I 
meet  my  Shunammite  to  say,  "  All,  all  is  well."  And  I 
will  conclude  my  blunders  with  my  oft-repeated  prayer, 
"  Glory  be  to  the  Father  and  to  the  Son  and  to  the  Holy 
Ghost.  As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever 
shall  be,  world  without  end.  Amen.'" 

P.S.  — Now,  Sir,  I  shall  go  on  with  my  fees  the  same 
as  I  found  them,  and  will  make  no  more  trouble  about 
them,  but  I  will  not,  I  cannot  leave  you,  nor  your  delight- 
ful duties.  — Your  most  obedient  servant, 

GEORGE  G G 

276 


A  Minister's  Uprising 

Robert  Robinson,  of   Cambridge,  describes  a  day's 
work        "^        *^        ^>        '^        x^>        '^ 

CHESTERTON,  May  26,  1784 

OLD  FRIEND,  —  You  love  I  should  write  folios : 
that  depends  upon  circumstances,  and  if  the 
thunderstorm  lasts,  it  will  be  so :  but  what  a  sad  thing 
it  is  to  be  forced  to  write,  when  one  has  nothing  to  say? 
Well,  you  shall  have  an  apology  for  not  writing,  —  that  is, 
a  diary  of  one  day. 

Rose  at  three  o'clock  —  crawled  into  the  library  — 
and  met  one  who  said,  "Yet  a  little  while  is  the  light 
with  you :  walk  while  ye  have  the  light  —  the  night 
cometh,  when  no  man  can  work — my  father  worketh 
hitherto,  and  I  work.1' 

Rang  the  great  bell,  and  roused  the  girls  to  milking  — 
went  up  to  the  farm,  roused  the  horse-keeper  —  fed  the 
horses  while  he  was  getting  up  —  called  the  boy  to  suckle 
the  calves,  and  clean  out  the  cow-house  —  lighted  the 
pipe,  walked  round  the  gardens  to  see  what  was  wanting 
there  —  went  up  the  paddock  to  see  if  the  weanling  calves 
were  well  —  went  down  to  the  ferry,  to  see  whether  the 
boy  had  scooped  and  cleaned  the  boats  —  returned  to  the 
farm  —  examined  the  shoulders,  heels,  traces,  chaff,  and 
corn  of  eight  horses  going  to  plough  —  mended  the  acre 
staff — cut  some  thongs,  whip-corded  the  boys'  plough 
whips  —  pumped  the  troughs  full  —  saw  the  hogs  fed  — 
examined  the  swill  tubs,  and  then  the  cellar  —  ordered  a 
quarter  of  malt,  for  the  hogs  want  grains,  and  the  men 
want  beer — filled  the  pipe  again,  returned  to  the  river, 
and  bought  a  lighter  of  turf  for  dairy  fires,  and  another 
of  sedge  for  ovens  —  hunted  up  the  wheelbarrows  and 
set  them  a-trundling  —  returned  to  the  farm,  called  the 
men  to  breakfast,  and  cut  the  boys'  bread  and  cheese, 
277 


From  Five  till  Noon 

and  saw  the  wooden  bottles  filled  —  sent  one  plough 
to  the  three-roods,  another  to  the  three  half-acres, 
and  so  on  —  shut  the  gates,  and  the  clock  struck  five  — 
breakfasted  —  set  two  men  to  ditch  the  five  roods  —  two 
more  to  chop  sads,  and  spread  about  the  land  —  two 
more  to  throw  up  muck  in  the  yard  —  and  three  men  and 
six  women  to  weed  wheat  —  set  on  the  carpenter  to  re- 
pair cow-cribs,  and  set  them  up  till  winter  —  the  wheeler 
to  mend  up  the  old  carts,  cart-ladders,  rakes,  etc.,  pre- 
paratory to  hay-time  and  harvest  —  walked  to  the  six- 
acres,  found  hogs  in  the  grass  —  went  back  and  sent  a 
man  to  hedge  and  thorn  —  sold  the  butcher  a  fat  calf,  and 
the  suckler  a  lean  one  —  the  clock  strikes  nine  —  walked 
into  barley-field  —  barleys  fine,  picked  off  a  few  tiles  and 
stones,  and  cut  a  few  thistles  —  the  peas  fine,  but  foul ;  the 
charlock  must  be  topped  —  the  tares  doubtful ;  the  fly 
seems  to  have  taken  them  —  prayed  for  rain,  but  could 
not  see  a  cloud  —  came  round  to  the  wheat-field  —  wheats 
rather  thin,  but  the  finest  colour  in  the  world  —  set  four 
women  on  to  the  shortest  wheats  —  ordered  one  man  to 
weed  the  ridge  of  the  long  wheats  —  and  two  women  to 
keep  rank  and  file  with  him  in  the  furrows  —  thistles 
many  —  blue-bottles  no  end  —  traversed  all  the  wheat-field 

—  came  to  the  fallow-field  —  the  ditchers  have  run  crooked 

—  set   them  straight  —  the  flag-sads  cut  too  much,  rush- 
sads   too  little,  strength  wasted,  shew  the  men   how  to 
three-corner  them — laid  out  more  work  for  the  ditchers  — 
went  to  the  ploughs  —  set  the  foot  a  little  higher ;   cut  a 
wedge,  set   the   coulter  deeper,  must  go  and  get  a  new 
mould-board  against  to-morrow  —  went  to  the  other  plough 

—  picked   up   some   wool,   and   tyed    over   the   traces  — 
mended    a    horse-tree,    tyed     a    thong    to    the    plough- 
hammer  —  went  to  see  which  lands  want  ploughing  first 

—  sat  down  under  a  bush  —  wondered  how  any  man  could 

278 


Afternoon  and  Evening 

be  so  silly  as  to  call  me  reverend —  read  two  verses  and 
thought  of  his  loving-kindness  in  the  midst  of  his 
temple  —  gave  out,  "  Come  all  harmonious  tongues,"  and 
set  Mount  Ephraim  tune  —  rose  up  —  whistled  —  the  dogs 
wagged  their  tails,  and  on  we  went  —  got  home  —  dinner 
ready  —  filled  the  pipe  —  drank  some  milk —  and  fell  asleep 
—  woke  by  the  carpenter  for  some  slats,  which  the  sawyer 
must  cut  —  the  Reverend  Messrs.  A.  in  a  coat,  B.  in  a  gown 
of  black,  and  C.  in  one  of  purple,  came  to  drink  tea,  and 
to  settle  whether  Corner  was  the  father  of  the  Celts  and 
Gauls  and  Britons,  or  only  the  uncle  —  proof  sheet  from 
Mr.  Archdeacon  —  corrected  it  —  washed  —  dressed  — 
went  to  meeting,  and  preached  from,  The  end  of  all  things 
is  at  hand,  be  ye  sober  and  watch  unto  prayer  —  found  a 
dear  brother  reverence  there,  who  went  home  with  me, 
and  edified  us  all  out  of  Solomon's  Song,  with  a  dish  of 
tripe  out  of  Leviticus,  and  a  golden  candlestick  out  of 
Exodus.  —  Really  and  truly  we  look  for  you  and  Mrs. 
Keene  and  Mr.  Dore  at  harvest ;  and  if  you  do  not  come 
I  know  what  you  all  are. 

Let  Mr.  Winch  go  where  he  can  better  himself.     Is  not 
this  a  folio  ?     And  like  many  other  folios  ? 

R.  ROBINSON. 


Charles  Lamb  saves  George  Dyer's  life        ^>        ^> 
(To  John  Rickman) 

[?  November  1801] 

A   LETTER   from  G.  Dyer  will  probably  accompany 
this.     I  wish  I  could  convey  to  you  any  notion  of 
the  whimsical   scenes    I    have  been  witness    to   in   this 
fortnight  past.     Twas  on  Tuesday  week  the  poor  heathen 
279 


The  Old  Burnt  Preface 

scrambled  up  to  my  door  about  breakfast  time.  He 
came  thro1  a  violent  rain  with  no  neckcloth  on,  and  a 
beard  that  made  him  a  spectacle  to  men  and  angels,  and 
tap'd  at  the  door.  Mary  open'd  it,  and  he  stood  stark 
still  and  held  a  paper  in  his  hand  importing  that  he  had 
been  ill  with  a  fever.  He  either  wouldn't  or  couldn't 
speak  except  by  signs.  When  you  went  to  comfort  him 
he  put  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  shook  his  head 
and  told  us  his  complaint  lay  where  no  medicines  could 
reach  it.  I  was  dispatched  for  Dr.  Dale,  Mr.  Phillips  of 
St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  and  Mr.  Frend,  who  is  to  be  his 
executor.  George  solemnly  delivered  into  Mr.  Trend's 
hands  and  mine  an  old  burnt  preface  that  had  been  in  the 
fire,  with  injunctions  which  we  solemnly  vow'd  to  obey 
that  it  should  be  printed  after  his  death  with  his  last 
corrections,  and  that  some  account  should  be  given  to  the 
world  why  he  had  not  fulfill'd  his  engagement  with 
subscribers.  Having  done  this  and  borrow'd  two  guineas 
of  his  bookseller  (to  whom  he  imparted  in  confidence 
that  he  should  leave  a  great  many  loose  papers  behind 
him  which  would  only  want  methodising  and  arranging 
to  prove  very  .lucrative  to  any  bookseller  after  his  death), 
he  laid  himself  down  on  my  bed  in  a  mood  of  complacent 
resignation.  By  the  aid  of  meat  and  drink  put  into  him 
(for  I  all  along  suspected  a  vacuum)  he  was  enabled  to 
sit  up  in  the  evening,  but  he  had  not  got  the  better  of  his 
intolerable  fear  of  dying ;  he  expressed  such  philosophic 
indifference  in  his  speech  and  such  frightened  appre- 
hensions in  his  physiognomy  that  if  he  had  truly  been 
dying,  and  I  had  known  it,  I  could  not  have .  kept  my 
countenance.  In  particular,  when  the  doctor  came  and 
ordered  him  to  take  little  white  powders  (I  suppose  of  chalk 
or  alum,  to  humour  him),  he  ey'd  him  with  a  suspicion  which 
I  could  not  account  for;  he  has  since  explain'd  that  he 
280 


Dirty  Niece  and  Dirtier  Nephew 

took  it  for  granted  Dr.  Dale  knew  his  situation  and 
had  ordered  him  these  powders  to  hasten  his  departure 
that  he  might  suffer  as  little  pain  as  possible.  Think  what 
an  aspect  the  heathen  put  on  with  these  fears  upon  a  dirty 
face.  To  recount  all  his  freaks  for  two  or  three  days 
while  he  thought  he  was  going,  and  how  the  fit  operated, 
and  sometimes  the  man  got  uppermost  and  sometimes  the 
author,  and  he  had  this  excellent  person  to  serve,  and 
he  must  correct  some  proof  sheets  for  Phillips,  and  he 
could  not  bear  to  leave  his  subscribers  unsatisfy'd,  but 
he  must  not  think  of  these  things  now,  he  was  going  to 
a  place  where  he  should  satisfy  all  his  debts  —  and  when 
he  got  a  little  better  he  began  to  discourse  what  a  happy 
thing  it  would  be  if  there  was  a  place  where  all  the  good 
men  and  women  in  the  world  might  meet,  meaning 
heav'n,  and  I  really  believe  for  a  time  he  had  doubts 
about  his  soul,  for  he  was  very  near,  if  not  quite,  light- 
headed. The  fact  was  he  had  not  had  a  good  meal  for 
some  days  and  his  little  dirty  Niece  (whom  he  sent  for 
with  a  still  dirtier  Nephew,  and  hugg'd  him,  and  bid 
them  farewell)  told  us  that  unless  he  dines  out  he  sub- 
sists on  tea  and  gruels.  And  he  corroborated  this  tale 
by  ever  and  anon  complaining  of  sensations  of  gnawing 
which  he  felt  about  his  heart,  which  he  mistook  his 
stomach  to  be,  and  sure  enough  these  gnawings  were 
dissipated  after  a  meal  or  two,  and  he  surely  thinks  that 
he  has  been  rescued  from  the  jaws  of  death  by  Dr.  Dale's 
white  powders.  He  is  got  quite  well  again  by  nursing, 
and  chirps  of  odes  and  lyric  poetry  the  day  long — he  is 
to  go  out  of  town  on  Monday,  and  with  him  goes  the 
dirty  train  of  his  papers  and  books  which  follow'd  him  to 
our  house.  I  shall  not  be  sorry  when  he  takes  his  nipt 
carcase  out  of  my  bed,  which  it  has  occupied,  and 
vanishes  with  all  his  Lyric  lumber,  but  I  will  endeavour 
281 


George  Burnett's  Case 

to  bring  him  in  future  into  a  method  of  dining  at  least 
once  a  day.  I  have  proposed  to  him  to  dine  with  me 
(and  he  has  nearly  come  into  it)  whenever  he  does  not 
go  out ;  and  pay  me.  I  will  take  his  money  beforehand 
and  he  shall  eat  it  out.  If  I  don't  it  will  go  all  over  the 
world.  Some  worthless  relations,  of  which  the  dirty 
little  devil  that  looks  after  him  and  a  still  more  dirty 
nephew  are  component  particles,  I  have  reason  to  think 
divide  all  his  gains  with  some  lazy  worthless  authors  that 
are  his  constant  satellites.  The  Literary  Fund  has  voted 
him  seasonably  .£20,  and  if  I  can  help  it  he  shall  spend 
it  on  his  own  carcase.  I  have  assisted  him  in  arranging 
the  remainder  of  what  he  calls  Poems  and  he  will  get 
rid  of  'em  I  hope  in  another  [Here  three  lines  are  torn 
away  at  the  foot  of  the  page,  wherein  Lamb  makes  the 
transition  from  George  Dyer  to  another  poor  author ; 
George  Burnetf}. 

I  promised  Burnett  to  write  when  his  parcel  went.  He 
wants  me  to  certify  that  he  is  more  awake  than  you  think 
him.  I  believe  he  may  be  by  this  time,  but  he  is  so  full 
of  self-opinion  that  I  fear  whether  he  and  Phillips  will 
ever  do  together.  What  he  is  to  do  for  Phillips  he 
whimsically  seems  to  consider  more  as  a  favour  done  to 
P.  than  a  job  from  P.  He  still  persists  to  call  employ- 
ment dependence,  and  prates  about  the  insolence  of  book- 
sellers and  the  tax  upon  geniuses.  Poor  devil !  he  is 
not  launched  upon  the  ocean  and  is  sea-sick  with  afore- 
thought. I  write  plainly  about  him,  and  he  would  stare 
and  frown  finely  if  he  read  this  treacherous  epistle,  but 
I  really  am  anxious  about  him,  and  that  [  ?  it]  nettles  me 
to  see  him  so  proud  and  so  helpless.  If  he  is  not  serv'd 
he  will  never  serve  himself.  I  read  his  long  letter  to 
Southey,  which  I  suppose  you  have  seen.  He  had  better 
have  been  furnishing  copy  for  Phillips  than  luxuriating 
282 


"Not  think  it  Backbiting" 

in  tracing  the  causes  of  his  imbecility.  I  believe  he  is 
a  little  wrong  in  not  ascribing  more  to  the  structure 
of  his  own  mind.  He  had  his  jawns  from  nature,  his 
pride  from  education. 

I  hope  to  see  Southey  soon,  so  I  need  only  send  my 
remembrance  to  him  now.  Doubtless  I  need  not  tell 
him  that  Burnett  is  not  to  be  fostered  in  self-opinion. 
His  eyes  want  opening,  to  see  himself  a  man  of  middling 
stature.  I  am  not  oculist  enough  to  do  this.  The  book- 
sellers may  one  day  remove  the  film.  I  am  all  this  time 
on  the  most  cordial  supping  terms  of  amity  with  G. 
Burnett  and  really  love  him  at  times :  but  I  must  speak 
freely  of  people  behind  their  backs  and  not  think  it  back- 
biting. It  is  better  than  Godwin's  way  of  telling  a  man 
he  is  a  fool  to  his  face. 

I  think  if  you  could  do  anything  for  George  in  the 
way  of  an  office  (God  knows  whether  you  can  in  any 
haste,  but  you  did  talk  of  it)  it  is  my  firm  belief 
that  it  would  be  his  only  chance  of  settlement ;  he  will 
n^ver  live  by  his  literary  exertions,  as  he  calls  them  — 
be  is  too  proud  to  go  the  usual  way  to  work,  and  he  has 
no  talents  to  make  that  way  unnecessary.  I  know  he 
talks  big  in  his  letter  to  Southey  that  his  mind  is  under- 
going an  alteration  and  that  the  die  is  now  casting  that 
shall  consign  him  to  honour  or  dishonour,  but  these  ex- 
pressions are  the  convulsions  of  a  fever,  not  the  sober 
workings  of  health.  Translated  into  plain  English,  he 
now  and  then  perceives  he  must  work  or  starve,  and 
then  he  thinks  he'll  work;  but  when  he  goes  about  it 
there's  a  lion  in  the  way.  He  came  dawdling  to  me 
for  an  •  Encyclopaedia  yesterday.  I  recommended  him 
to  Norris'  library ;  and  he  said  if  he  could  not  get  it 
there  Phillips  was  bound  to  furnish  him  with  one;  it 
was  Phillips'  interest  to  do  so,  and  all  that.  This  was 

283 


A  Life  of  G.   Dyer 

true  with  some  restrictions  —  but  as  to  Phillips'  interests 
to  oblige  G.  B.!  Lord  help  his  simple  head!  P.  could 
by  a  whistle  call  together  a  host  of  such  authors  as  G.  B. 
like  Robin  Hood's  merry  men  in  green.  P.  has  regular 
regiments  in  pay.  Poor  writers  are  his  crab-lice  and 
suck  at  him  for  nutriment.  His  round  pudding  chops 
are  their  idea  of  plenty  when  in  their  idle  fancies  they 
aspire  to  be  rich. 

What  do  you  think  of  a  life  of  G.  Dyer?  I  can  scarcely 
conceive  a  more  amusing  novel.  He  has  been  connected 
with  all  sects  in  the  world  and  he  will  faithfully  tell  all 
he  knows.  Everybody  will  read  it ;  and  if  it  is  not  done 
according  to  my  fancy  I  promise  to  put  him  in  a  novel 
when  he  dies.  Nothing  shall  escape  me.  If  you  think 
it  feasible,  whenever  you  write  you  may  encourage  him. 
Since  he  has  been  so  close  with  me  I  have  perceiv'd  the 
workings  of  his  inordinate  vanity,  his  gigantic  attention 
to  particles  and  to  prevent  open  vowels  in  his  odes,  his 
solicitude  that  the  public  may  not  lose  any  tittle  of  his 
poems  by  his  death,  and  all  the  while  his  utter  ignorance 
that  the  world  don't  care  a  pin  about  his  odes  and  his 
criticisms,  a  fact  which  everybody  knows  but  himself — 
he  is  a  rum  genius.  C.  L. 


William  Cowper  is  solicited  for  his  vote     ^^     "^ 
(To  the  Rev.  John  Newton) 

March  29,  1784 

MY     DEAR    FRIEND,  — It     being    His   Majesty's 
pleasure   that   I  should  yet   have   another  oppor- 
tunity to  write  before  he  dissolves  the  Parliament,  I  avail 
myself  of  it  with  all  possible  alacrity.     I  thank  you  for 
your  last,  which  was  not  the  less  welcome  for  coming, 
284 


The  Nature  of  the  Candidate 

like  an  extraordinary  gazette,  at  a  time  when  it  was  not 
expected. 

As  when  the  sea  is  uncommonly  agitated,  the  water 
finds  its  way  into  creeks  and  holes  of  rocks,  which  in  its 
calmer  state  it  never  reaches,  in  like  manner  the  effect 
of  these  turbulent  times  is  felt  even  at  Orchard  side, 
where  in  general  we  live  as  undisturbed  by  the  political 
element,  as  shrimps  or  cockles  that  have  been  accident- 
ally deposited  in  some  hollow  beyond  the  water-mark, 
by  the  usual  dashing  of  the  waves. 

We  were  sitting  yesterday  after  dinner,  the  two  ladies 
and  myself,  very  composedly,  and  without  the  least 
apprehension  of  any  such  intrusion  in  our  snug  parlour, 
one  lady  knitting,  the  other  netting,  and  the  gentleman 
winding  worsted,  when  to  our  unspeakable  surprise  a 
mob  appeared  before  the  window ;  a  smart  rap  was 
heard  at  the  door,  the  boys  hallooM,  and  the  maid 
announced  Mr.  Grenville. 

Puss  was  unfortunately  let  out  of  her  box,  so  that 
the  candidate,  with  all  his  good  friends  at  his  heels,  was 
refused  admittance  at  the  grand  entry,  and  referred  to 
the  back  door,  as  the  only  possible  way  of  approach. 
Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  susceptible  of  affronts, 
and  would  rather,  I  suppose,  climb  in  at  a  window,  than 
be  absolutely  excluded.  In  a  minute  the  yard,  the 
kitchen,  and  the  parlour  were  filled.  Mr.  Grenville 
advancing  toward  me,  shook  me  by  the  hand  with  a 
^degree  of  cordiality  that  was  extremely  seducing.  As 
soon  as  he  and  as  many  more  as  could  find  chairs  were 
seated,  he  began  to  open  the  intent  of  his  visit. 

I  told  him  I  had  no  vote,  for  which  he  readily  gave  me 
credit. 

I  assured  him  I  had  no  influence,  which  he  was  not 
equally  inclined  to  believe,  and  the  less,  no  doubt, 

285 


"  A  most  Kissing  Gentleman  " 

because  Mr.  Ashburner,  the  draper,  addressing  himself 
to  me  at  this  moment,  informed  me  that  I  had  a  great 
deal.  Supposing  that  I  could  not  be  possessed  of  such 
a  treasure  without  knowing  it,  I  ventured  to  confirm  my 
first  assertion,  by  saying,  that  if  I  had  any  I  was  utterly 
at  a  loss  to  imagine  where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it 
consisted.  Thus  ended  the  conference.  Mr.  Grenville 
squeezed  me  by  the  hand  again,  kissed  the  ladies,  and 
withdrew. 

He  kissed  likewise  the  maid  in  the  kitchen,  and 
seemed  upon  the  whole  a  most  loving,  kissing,  kind- 
hearted  gentleman. 

He  is  very  young,  genteel,  and  handsome.  He  has 
a  pair  of  very  good  eyes  in  his  head,  which  not  being 
sufficient  as  it  should  seem  for  the  many  nice  and  diffi- 
cult purposes  of  a  senator,  he  has  a  third  also,  which  he 
wore  suspended  by  a  ribband  from  his  buttonhole. 

The  boys  hallooM,  the  dogs  barked,  Puss  scampered, 
the  hero,  with  his  long  train  of  obsequious  followers, 
withdrew.  We  made  ourselves  very  merry  with  the 
adventure,  and  in  a  short  time  settled  into  our  former 
tranquillity,  never  probably  to  be  thus  interrupted  more. 
I  thought  myself,  however,  happy  in  being  able  to  affirm 
truly  that  I  had  not  that  influence  for  which  he  sued; 
and  which,  had  I  been  possessed  of  it,  with  my  present 
views  of  the  dispute  between  the  Crown  and  the  Commons, 
I  must  have  refused  him,  for  he  is  on  the  side  of  the 
former.  It  is  comfortable  to  be  of  no  consequence  in 
a  world  where  one  cannot  exercise  any  without  dis-* 
obliging  somebody.  The  town,  however,  seems  to  be 
much  at  his  service,  and  if  he  be  equally  successful 
throughout  the  county,  he  will  undoubtedly  gain  his 
election. 

Mr.  Ashburner,  perhaps,  was  a  little  mortified,  because  it 
286 


John  Poole  in  Bed 

was  evident  that  I  owed  the  honour  of  this  visit  to  his 
misrepresentation  of  my  importance.  But  had  he  thought 
proper  to  assure  Mr.  Grenville  that  I  had  three  heads,  I 
should  not,  I  suppose,  have  been  bound  to  produce  them. 


Charles   Dickens  gives  Wilkie  Collins  news  of  John 
Poole       -^        ^>        ^>        ^>        x^        ^> 

October '8,  1862 

I  SAW  Poole  (for  my  sins)  last  Saturday,  and  he  was 
a  sight.  He  had  got  out  of  bed  to  receive  me  (at 
3  p.m.)  and  tried  to  look  as  if  he  had  been  up  at  Dawn  — 
with  a  dirty  and  obviously  warm  impression  of  himself  on 
the  bedclothes.  It  was  a  tent  bedstead  with  four  wholly 
unaccounted  for  and  bare  poles,  each  with  an  immense 
spike  on  the  top,  like  four  Lightning  conductors.  He 
had  a  fortnight's  grey  beard,  and  had  made  a  lot  of  the 
most  extraordinary  memoranda  of  questions  to  ask  me 
—  which  he  couldn't  read — through  an  eyeglass  which 
he  couldn't  hold.  He  was  continually  beset  with  a 
notion  that  his  landlady  was  listening  outside  the  door, 
and  was  continually  getting  up  from  a  kind  of  ironing- 
board  at  which  he  sat,  with  the  intention  of  darting  at 
the  door,  but  invariably  missed  his  aim,  and  brought 
himself  up  by  the  forehead  against  blind  corners  of  the 
wall.  He  had  a  dressing-gown  over  his  nightshirt,  and 
wore  his  trousers  where  Blondin  wears  his  Baskets.  He 
said,  with  the  greatest  indignation,  I  might  suppose  what 
sort  of  "  society  "  he  could  get  out  of  his  landlady,  when 
he  mentioned  that  she  could  say  nothing,  on  being  con- 
sulted by  him  touching  the  Poison-Case  at  the  Old 
Bailey,  but,  "People  didn't  ought  to  poison  people,  sir; 
it's  wrong."  —  Ever  affec'ly,  C.  D. 

287 


Another  Model 
Another  model  letter  from  Mary  Guilhermin's  book, 

1766  *^          "^          "s^x          ^^          *^          ^> 

DEAR  MAMMA,  —  I  am  much  obliged  to  papa  and 
you  for  thinking  on  me ;  the  taylor  took  measure 
of  me  yesterday,  and  promises  me  my  new  suit  by  next 
Sunday.  I  shall  examine  every  pocket  in  hopes  of 
finding  a  blessing  from  dear  mamma;  whose  tenderness 
and  spirit,  I  am  persuaded,  will  not  permit  her  to  let  her 
son  appear  less  than  others,  as  my  school-fellows  are 
indulged  for  good  behaviour  to  go  next  week  with  our 
mistress  and  see  a  play  exhibited  by  some  strollers  in  the 
next  village ;  we  have  had  an  account  of  its  being  very 
merry  and  entertaining.  Everyone  is  intent  on  the 
promised  diversion,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  disappoint 
the  proposed  pleasure  of  your  affectionate  and  dutiful 


288 


XIII 

THE   PEN    REFLECTIVE 

Horace  Walpole  in  the  vein  of  Ecclesiastes  -^ 

(To  George  Montagu,  Esq.) 

PARIS,  November  21,  1765 

YOU  must  not  be  surprised  when  my  letters  arrive 
long  after  their  date.  I  write  them  at  my  leisure 
and  send  them  when  I  find  any  Englishman  going  to 
London,  that  I  may  not  be  kept  in  check,  if  they  were 
to  pass  through  both  French  and  English  posts. 

Your  letter  to  Madame  Roland,  and  the  books  for  her,  will 
set  out  very  securely  in  a  day  or  two.  My  bookseller  here 
happens  to  be  of  Rheims,  and  knows  Madame  Roland, 
comme  deux  gouttes  tfeau.  This  perhaps  is  not  a  well- 
placed  simile,  but  the  French  always  use  one,  and  when 
they  are  once  established,  and  we  know  the  tense,  it 
does  not  signify  sixpence  for  the  sense. 

My  gout  and  my  stick  have  entirely  left  me.     I  totter 

still,  it  is  true,  but  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  whisk  about 

at  Strawberry  as  well  almost  as  ever.     When  that  hour 

strikes  j  to  be  sure  I  shall  not  be  very  long.     The  same- 

u  289 


Old  Age  and  Friends 

ness  of  the  life  here  is  worse  than  anything  but  English 
politics  and  the  House  of  Commons.  Indeed,  I  have 
Dumenil.  The  Dauphin,  who  is  not  dead  yet,  detains 
the  whole  camp  at  Fontainebleau,  whither  I  dare  not 
venture,  as  the  situation  is  very  damp,  and  the  lodgings 
abominable.  Sights,  too,  I  have  scarce  seen  any  yet ; 
and  I  must  satisfy  my  curiosity ;  for  I  think  I  shall 
never  come  again  —  no,  let  us  sit  down  quietly  and  com- 
fortably, and  enjoy  our  coming  old  age.  Oh!  if  you 
are  in  earnest  and  transplant  yourself  to  Roehampton, 
how  happy  I  shall  be!  You  know,  if  you  believe  an 
experience  of  above  thirty  years,  that  you  are  one  of 
the  very,  very  few,  for  whom  I  really  care  a  straw. 
You  know  how  long  I  have  been  vexed  at  seeing  so 
little  of  you.  What  has  one  to  do,  when  one  grows 
tired  of  the  world,  as  we  both  do,  but  to  draw  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  gently  waste  the  remains  of  life  with 
the  friends  with  whom  one  began  it  !  Young  and 
happy  people  will  have  no  regard  for  us  and  our  old 
stories,  and  they  are  in  the  right ;  but  we  shall  not 
tire  one  another;  we  shall  laugh  together  when  nobody 
is  by  to  laugh  at  us,  and  we  may  think  ourselves  young 
enough  when  we  see  nobody  younger.  Roehampton  is 
a  delightful  spot,  at  once  cheerful  and  retired.  You  will 
amble  in  your  chaise  about  Richmond-park ;  we  shall 
see  one  another  as  often  as  we  like ;  I  shall  frequently 
peep  at  London,  and  bring  you  tales  of  it,  and  we  shall 
sometimes  touch  a  card  with  the  Clive,  and  laugh  our 
fill ;  for  I  must  tell  you,  I  desire  to  die  when  I  have 
nobody  left  to  laugh  with  me.  I  have  never  yet  seen 
or  heard  anything  serious  that  was  not  ridiculous. 
Jesuits,  methodists,  philosophers,  politicians,  the 
hypocrite  Rousseau,  the  scoffer  Voltaire,  the  encyclo- 
pedists, the  Humes,  the  Lytteltons,  the  Grenvilles,  the 
290 


Rabelais'  Easy-Chair 

atheist  tyrant  of  Prussia,  and  the  Mountebank  of 
History,  Mr.  Pitt,  all  are  to  me  but  impostors  in  their 
various  ways.  Fame  or  interest  is  their  object ;  and 
after  all  their  parade,  I  think  a  ploughman  who  sows, 
reads  his  almanack,  and  believes  the  stars  but  so  many 
farthing  candles,  created  to  prevent  his  falling  into  a 
ditch  as  he  goes  home  at  night,  a  wiser  and  more 
rational  being,  and,  I  am  sure,  an  honester  than  any  of 
them.  Oh  !  I  am  sick  of  visions  and  systems,  that 
shove  one  another  aside,  and  come  over  again,  like 
the  figures  in  a  moving  picture.  Rabelais  brightens 
up  to  me  as  I  see  more  of  the  world ;  he  treated  it  as 
it  deserved,  laughed  at  it  all,  and,  as  I  judge  from 
myself,  ceased  to  hate  it;  for  I  find  hatred  an  unjust 
preference.  Adieu  ! 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  contemplates  facts    -^> 
(To  E.  W.  Montagu,  Esq.) 

December  9,  1711 

I  AM  not  at  all  surprised  at  my  Aunt  Cheyne's  con- 
duct :  people  are  seldom  very  much  grieved  (and 
never  ought  to  be)  at  misfortunes  they  expect.  When  I 
gave  myself  to  you,  I  gave  up  the  very  desire  of  pleasing 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  am  pretty  indifferent  about  it. 
I  think  you  are  very  much  in  the  right  for  designing  to 
visit  Lord  Pierrepont.  As  much  as  you  say  I  love  the 
town,  if  you  think  it  necessary  for  your  interest  to  stay 
some  time  here,  I  would  not  advise  you  to  neglect  a 
certainty  for  an  uncertainty ;  but  I  believe  if  you  pass 
the  Christmas  here,  great  matters  will  be  expected  from 
your  hospitality :  however,  you  are  a  better  judge  of  that 
than  I  am. 

291 


Lady  Mary's  Maxim 

I  continue  indifferently  well,  and  endeavour  as  much 
as  I  can  to  preserve  myself  from  spleen  and  melancholy ; 
not  for  my  own  sake ;  I  think  that  of  little  importance ; 
but  in  the  condition  I  am,  I  believe  it  may  be  of  very 
ill  consequence ;  yet;  passing  whole  days  alone  as  I  do, 
I  do  not  always  find  it  possible,  and  my  constitution  will 
sometimes  get  the  better  of  my  reason.  Human  nature 
itself,  without  any  additional  misfortunes,  furnishes  dis- 
agreeable meditations  enough.  Life  itself,  to  make  it 
supportable,  should  not  be  considered  too  nearly;  my 
reason  represents  to  me  in  vain  the  inutility  of  serious 
reflections. 

The  idle  mind  will  sometimes  fall  into  contemplations 
that  serve  for  nothing  but  to  ruin  the  health,  destroy 
good  humour,  hasten  old  age  and  wrinkles,  and  bring 
on  an  habitual  melancholy. 

'Tis  a  maxim  with  me  to  be  young  as  long  as  one  can : 
there  is  nothing  can  pay  one  for  that  invaluable  ignorance 
which  is  the  companion  of  youth ;  those  sanguine  ground- 
less hopes,  and  that  lively  vanity,  which  make  all  the 
happiness  of  life.  To  my  extreme  mortification  I  grow 
wiser  every  day.  I  don't  believe  Solomon  was  more 
convinced  of  the  vanity  of  temporal  affairs  than  I  am : 
I  lose  all  taste  of  this  world,  and  I  suffer  myself  to 
be  bewitched  by  the  charms  of  the  spleen,  though  I 
know  and  foresee  all  the  irremediable  mischiefs  arising 
from  it. 

I  am  insensibly  fallen  into  the  writing  you  a  melan- 
choly letter,  after  all  my  resolutions  to  the  contrary; 
but  I  do  not  enjoin  you  to  read  it.  Make  no  scruple  of 
flinging  it  into  the  fire  at  the  first  dull  line. 

Forgive  the  ill  effects  of  my  solitude,  and  think  me, 
as  I  am,  ever  yours,  M.  W.  MONTAGU 


292 


An  Illusion  of  Youth 

William  Covvper  moralises  on  Time      ^^       ^>       ^ 
(To  Mrs.  Cowper) 

August  31,  1780 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN,  — I  am  obliged  to  you  for 
your  long  letter,  which  did  not  seem  so ;  and 
for  your  short  one,  which  was  more  than  I  had  any 
reason  to  expect. 

Short  as  it  was,  it  conveyed  to  me  two  interesting 
articles  of  intelligence :  An  account  of  your  recovering 
from  a  fever,  and  of  Lady  ^Cowpe^s  death.  The  latter 
was,  I  suppose,  to  be  expected,  for  by  what  remembrance 
I  have  of  her  ladyship,  who  was  never  much  acquainted 
with  her,  she  had  reached  those  years  that  are  always 
found  upon  the  borders  of  another  world.  As  for  you, 
your  time  of  life  is  comparatively  of  a  youthful  date. 
You  may  think  of  death  as  much  as  you  please  (you 
cannot  think  of  it  too  much),  but  I  hope  you  will  live 
to  think  of  it  many  years. 

It  costs  me  not  much  difficulty  to  suppose  that  my 
friends  who  were  already  grown  old  when  I  saw  them 
last,  are  old  still ;  but  it  costs  me  a  good  deal  sometimes 
to  think  of  those  who  were  at  that  time  young,  as  being 
older  than  they  were.  Not  having  been  an  eye-witness 
of  the  change  that  time  has  made  in  them,  and  my 
former  idea  of  them  not  being  corrected  by  observation, 
it  remains  the  same ;  my  memory  presents  me  with  this 
image  unimpaired,  and  while  it  retains  the  resemblance 
of  what  they  were,  forgets  that  by  this  time  the  picture 
may  have  lost  much  of  its  likeness,  through  the  alteration 
that  succeeding  years  have  made  in  the  original.  I 
know  not  what  impressions  Time  may  have  made  upon 
your  person,  for  while  his  claws,  (as  our  grannams  called 
293 


Time,  the  Friend  and  Foe 

them)  strike  deep  furrows  in  some  faces,  he  seems  to 
sheathe  them  with  much  tenderness,  as  if  fearful  of  doing 
injury  to  others. 

But  though  an  enemy  to  the  person,  he  is  a  friend 
to  the  mind,  and  you  have  found  him  so. 

Though  even  in  this  respect  his  treatment  of  us  de- 
pends upon  what  he  meets  with  at  our  hands ;  if  we 
use  him  well,  and  listen  to  his  admonitions,  he  is  a  friend 
indeed,  but  otherwise  the  worst  of  enemies,  who  takes 
from  us  daily  something  that  we  valued,  and  gives  us 
nothing  better  in  its  stead.  It  is  well  with  them  who, 
like  you,  can  stand  a-tiptoe.  on  the  mountain  top  of 
human  life,  look  down  with  pleasure  upon  the  valley  they 
have  passed,  and  sometimes  stretch  their  wings  in  joyful 
hope  of  a  happy  flight  into  eternity.  Yet  a  little  while, 
and  your  hope  will  be  accomplished. 

When  you  can  favour  me  with  a  little  account  of  your 
own  family,  without  inconvenience,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
receive  it;  for  though  separated  from  my  kindred  by 
little  more  than  half  a  century  of  miles,  I  know  as  little 
of  their  concerns  as  if  oceans  and  continents  were  inter- 
posed between  us.  —  Yours,  my  dear  cousin, 

W.  C. 


James  Beattie  compares  himself  with  others    ^>    "^x 
(To  the  Hon.  Charles  Boyd) 

ABERDEEN,  November  16,  1766 

LUCKILY  I  am  now  a  little  better,  so  as  to  be  able 
to  read  a  page,  and  write  a  sentence  or  two  without 
stopping;   which,   I  assure   you,  is  a  very  great   matter. 
My  hopes   and  my  spirits   begin   to   revive   once   more. 
294 


Points  of  Similarity 

I  flatter  myself  I  shall  soon  get  rid  of  this  infirmity, 
nay,  that  I  shall  ere  long,  be  in  the  way  of  becoming 
a  great  man. 

For  have  I  not  headaches,  like  Pope?  vertigo,  like 
Swift?  grey  hairs,  like  Homer?  Do  I  not  wear  large 
shoes  (for  fear  of  corns)  like  Virgil  ?  and  sometimes  com- 
plain of  sore  eyes  (though  not  of  Uppitude),  like  Horace? 
Am  I  not  at  this  present  writing  invested  with  a  garment 
not  less  ragged  than  that  of  Socrates?  Like  Joseph  the 
patriarch,  I  am  a  mighty  dreamer  of  dreams ;  like 
Nimrod  the  hunter,  I  am  an  eminent  builder  of  castles 
(in  the  air). 

I  procrastinate,  like  Julius  Caesar,  and  very  lately,  in 
imitation  of  Don  Quixote,  I  rode  a  horse,  lean,  old,  and 
lazy,  like  Rosinante. 

Sometimes,  like  Cicero,  I  write  bad  verses ;  and  some- 
times bad  prose,  like  Virgil.  This  last  instance  I  have 
on  the  authority  of  Seneca. 

I  am  of  small  stature,  like  Alexander  the  Great ;  I  am 
somewhat  inclinable  to  fatness,  like  Dr.  Arbuthnot  and 
Aristotle ;  and  I  drink  brandy  and  water,  like  Mr.  Boyd. 

I  might  compare  myself,  in  relation  to  many  other 
infirmities,  to  many  other  great  men ;  but  if  Fortune  is 
not  influenced  in  my  favour  by  the  particulars  already 
enumerated,  I  shall  despair  of  ever  recommending 
myself  to  her  good  graces.  I  once  had  some  thought  of 
soliciting  her  patronage  on  the  score  of  my  resembling 
great  men  in  their  good  qualities  ;  but  I  had  so  little  to  say 
on  that  subject,  that  I  could  not  for  my  life  furnish  matter 
for  one  well-rounded  period:  and  you  know  a  short,  ill- 
turned  speech  is  very  improper  to  be  used  in  an  address 
to  a  female  deity. 

Do  not  you  think  there  is  a  sort  of  antipathy  between 
philosophical  and  poetical  genius?  I  question  whether 
295 


Poets  and  Philosophers 

one  person  was  ever  eminent  for  both.  Lucretius  lays 
aside  the  poet  when  he  assumes  the  philosopher,  and 
the  philosopher  when  he  assumes  the  poet.  In  the  one 
character  he  is  truly  excellent,  in  the  other  he  is  ab- 
solutely nonsensical. 

Hobbes  was  a  tolerable  metaphysician,  but  his  poetry 
is  the  worst  that  ever  was.  Pope's  Essay  on  Man  is 
the  finest  philosophical  poem  in  the  world ;  but  it  seems 
to  me  to  do  more  honour  to  the  imagination  than  to  the 
understanding  of  its  author:  I  mean,  its  sentiments  are 
noble  and  affecting,  its  images  and  allusions  apposite, 
beautiful,  and  new ;  its  wit  transcendently  excellent ;  but 
the  scientific  part  of  it  is  very  exceptionable. 

Whatever  Pope  borrows  from  Leibnitz,  like  most  other 
metaphysical  theories,  is  frivolous  and  unsatisfying. 
What  Pope  gives  us  of  his  own,  is  energetic,  irresistible, 
and  divine.  The  incompatibility  of  philosophical  and 
poetical  genius  is,  I  think,  no  unaccountable  thing. 

Poetry  exhibits  the  general  qualities  of  a  species; 
philosophy  the  particular  qualities  of  individuals. 

This  forms  its  conclusions  from  a  painful  and  minute 
examination  of  single  instances :  that  decides  in- 
stantaneously, either  from  its  own  instinctive  sagacity, 
or  from  a  singular  and  unaccountable  penetration,  which 
at  one  glance  sees  all  the  instances  which  the  philosopher 
must  leisurely  and  progressively  scrutinise,  one  by  one. 
This  persuades  you  gradually,  and  by  detail ;  the  other 
overpowers  you  in  an  instant  by  a  single  effort.  Observe 
the  effect  of  argumentation  in  poetry ;  we  have  too  many 
instances  of  it  in  Milton :  it  transforms  the  noblest 
thoughts  into  drawling  inferences,  and  the  most  beautiful 
language  into  prose,  it  checks  the  tide  of  passion,  by 
giving  the  mind  a  different  employment  in  the  comparison 
of  ideas. 

296 


The  Grave's  Alleviations 

A  little  philosophical  acquaintance  with  the  most  beau* 
tiful  parts  of  nature,  both  in  the  material  and  immaterial 
system,  is  of  use  to  a  poet,  and  gives  grace  and  solidity 
to  poetry ;  as  may  be  seen  in  The  Georgics,  The  Seasons, 
and  The  Pleasures  of  Imagination  ;  but  this  acquaintance, 
if  it  is  anything  more  than  superficial,  will  do  a  poet 
rather  harm  than  good ;  and  will  give  his  mind  that  turn 
for  minute  observation  which  enfeebles  the  fancy  by 
restraining  it,  and  counteracts  the  native  energy  of  judg- 
ment by  rendering  it  fearful  and  suspicious. 


The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  contemplates  another  and  a 
better  life        -^        ^>         *^>        ^>        ^y 

COMBE  FLOREY,  September  13,  1842 

MY  DEAR  LADY  HOLLAND,  —  I  am  sorry  to  hear 
Allen  is  not  well ;  but  the  reduction  of  his  legs  is 
a  pure  and  unmixed  good;  they  are  enormous,  —  they  are 
clerical !  He  has  the  creed  of  a  philosopher  and  the  legs 
of  a  clergyman ;  I  never  saw  such  legs,  —  at  least,  belong- 
ing to  a  layman. 

Read  A  Life  in  the  Forest,  skipping  nimbly ;  but  there 
is  much  of  good  in  it. 

It  is  a  bore,  I  admit,  to  be  past  seventy,  for  you  are  left 
for  execution,  and  are  daily  expecting  the  death-warrant ; 
but,  as  you  say,  it  is  not  anything  very  capital  we  quit. 
We  are,  at  the  close  of  life,  only  hurried  away  from 
stomach-aches,  pains  in  the  joints,  from  sleepless  nights 
and  unamusing  days,  from  weakness,  ugliness,  and 
nervous  tremors ;  but  we  shall  all  meet  again  in  another 

planet,  cured  of  all  our  defects.  will  be  less 

irritable ; more  silent ;  will  assent ;  Jeffrey  will 

speak  slower ;  Bobus  will  be  just  as  he  is ;  I  shall  be  more 
297 


Seneca's  Bailiff 

respectful  to  the  upper  clergy ;  but  I  shall  have  as  lively 
a  sense  as  I  now  have  of  all  your  kindness  and  affection 
for  me.  SYDNEY  SMITH 

Seneca  enlarges  to  Lucilius  on  old  age         ^y         ^ 

T  T  7HITHERSOEVER  I  turn  myself,  spectacles,  re- 
»  V  minding  me  of  my  old  age,  present  themselves. 
I  went  the  other  day  to  my  country  house  just  without 
the  city,  and  was  complaining  how  much  it  seemed  out 
of  repair,  notwithstanding  the  money  which  I  had  laid 
out  upon  it.  "  It  may  be  so,"  said  my  bailiff,  "  but  it  is 
from  no  want  of  care  in  me.  I  have  done  all  in  my 
power  to  keep  it  up,  but  the  truth  is,  it  is  very  old.1'  Now 
you  must  know  this  villa  was  of  my  own  raising,  and  has 
grown  to  its  present  state  under  my  hands.  What  then 
have  I  to  expect,  if  stones  laid  down  in  my  own  time 
have  begun  to  show  symptoms  of  decay  ?  Being  put  by  this 
a  little  out  of  humour  with  the  man,  I  laid  hold  of  the  first 
occasion  of  finding  fault.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  said  I, 
"  that  these  plane  trees  have  been  neglected  —  how  rotten 
and  withered  are  these  branches!  In  what  a  wretched 
and  foul  condition  are  these  stems !  This  would  not  have 
happened  if  anyone  had  dug  round  it,  and  given  it  water." 
Upon  this  my  bailiff  swears  heartily  that  he  had  done  all  he 
could,  and  spared  no  pains,  but  that  they  were  old.  Now, 
between  ourselves,  I  planted  these  trees,  and  witnessed  their 
first  foliage.  Turning  to  the  gate,  I  said,  "  And  pray  who 
is  that  decrepit  old  fellow  whom  you  have,  properly  enough, 
placed  here,  with  his  face  turned  towards  the  door? 
Where  in  the  world  did  you  pick  up  this  man?  What 
whim  is  this,  to  bring  this  strange  corpse  into  my 
house?"  "What!  don't  you  know  me?"  says  the 
old  man ;  "  I  am  Felicio,  to  whom  you  used  formerly 
298 


Pleasures  of  Decay 

to  bring  playthings.  I  am  the  son  of  Philositus,  your 
former  bailiff:  your  little  favourite  playfellow."  "  Surely," 
said  I,  u  the  man  is  out  of  his  mind.  He  my  little  play- 
fellow! The  thing  is  impossible.  But  yet  it  may  be,  for 
I  see  he  is  shedding  his  teeth." 

Thus  am  I  indebted  to  my  villa  for  reminding  me,  at 
every  turn,  of  my  old  age.  Let  us  embrace  it,  let  us  love 
it.  To  him  who  knows  how  to  use  it,  it  is  full  of 
enjoyment. 

Fruit  is  most  grateful  towards  the  end  of  the  season. 
Youth,  when  one  is  just  losing  it,  is  the  most  attractive. 
The  last  potation  is  the  most  agreeable  to  the  lovers  of 
wine ;  and  every  pleasure  is  most  valued  when  it  is 
coming  to  its  end.  Decay,  when  it  is  gradual,  and  not 
precipitate,  is  really  pleasant.  I  don't  fear  to  pronounce  a 
man  standing  on  the  very  ultimate  verge  of  life  to  have  his 
solace ;  or  at  least  we  may  say  that  the  absence  of  all 
want  is  itself  a  sort  of  pleasure.  How  sweet  it  is  to  have 
lived  out,  and  taken  leave  of,  all  anxious  desires ! 

But  you  will  say  that  it  is  painful  to  have  death  before 
our  eyes.  My  answer  is  in  the  first  place,  that  it  ought 
always  to  be  before  the  eyes  as  well  of  the  young  as  of  the 
old,  for  we  are  not  summoned  as  we  stand  in  the  register ; 
and  then  that  no  one  is  so  old  as  to  make  it  sinful  to 
expect  another  day.  Every  day  is  another  step  in  life. 
All  our  time  consists  of  parts :  of  circles  within  circles  of 
different  orbits,  some  one  of  which  comprehends  the  rest ; 
and  thus  compasses  the  whole  life  of  man  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  life.  One  includes  the  years  of 
youth  ;  another  circumscribes  only  the  period  of  child- 
hood. A  single  year  includes  all  those  portions  of  time, 
of  which  the  whole  of  existence  is  but  the  multiplication. 
A  month  lies  within  a  narrower  circle,  and  a  day  within 
one  still  of  smaller  extent.  And  yet  the  day  has  its 
299 


The  Wise  Pacuvius 

beginning  and  its  end,  from  the  rising  to  the  setting 
sun.  Heraclitus,  who  from  his  obscurity  got  the  name  of 
Scotinus,  says  "  dies  par  omni  est " :  which  some  interpret, 
as  if  he  had  said,  They  are  equal  as  to  hours,  which  is 
true  enough ;  for  if  a  day  is  a  period  of  six  hours,  in 
that  respect  all  days  are  equal :  since  the  night  takes  up 
what  the  day  loses. 

Another  holds  the  meaning  to  be,  that  one  day  is  but 
the  counterpart  of  the  other.  After  all,  the  longest  space 
of  time  exhibits  only  what  may  be  found  in  one  day  — 
light  and  darkness,  with  their  vicissitudes  and  alternations. 
Every  day  should  be  therefore  so  ordered  and  disposed, 
as  if  it  closed  the  series,  and  were  the  measure  and 
completion  of  our  existence.  Pacuvius,  who  made  Syria 
his  own  country  by  long  residence  in  it,  when  he  had 
regaled  himself  with  wine  and  feasting,  as  at  a  funeral 
banquet,  caused  himself  to  be  carried  from  supper  to  his 
bed-chamber,  that,  amidst  the  applause  of  his  companions, 
the  following  words  might  be  chanted  to  music,  /Se&ucotai, 
/2e0aia>rai,  "He  hath  lived,  he  hath  lived "  ;  and  such  was 
his  practice  every  day.  Now  this  that  was  done  by  him 
with  a  bad  conscience,  let  us  do  with  a  good  one ;  and 
when  retiring  to  our  rest,  let  us  with  composed  and 
cheerful  spirits  have  to  say,  "Vixi,  et  quern  cursum 
dederat  fortuna  peregi."  If  God  should  vouchsafe  us  a 
to-morrow,  let  us  receive  it  with  joy  and  thankfulness. 

He  is  the  happiest  man,  —  the  secure  possessor  of 
himself,  who  waits  for  the  morrow  without  solicitude ;  — 
he  who  can  go  to  bed  at  night  saying,  "  I  have  lived,"  in 
the  full  sense  of  the  phrase,  rises  every  morning  with  a 
day  gained. 


300 


Exiled  to  Enfield 

Charles  Lamb  laments  his  exile       ^v        ^^        <^y 
(To  William  Wordsworth) 

p.m.  January  22,  1830 

AND  is  it  a  year  since  we  parted  from  you  at  the 
steps  of  Edmonton  Stage?  There  are  not  now  the 
years  that  there  used  to  be.  The  tale  of  the  dwinded  age 
of  men,  reported  of  successional  mankind,  is  true  of  the 
same  man  only.  We  do  not  live  a  year  in  a  year  now. 
'Tis  a  punctum  stans.  The  seasons  pass  us  with  indiffer- 
ence. Spring  cheers  not,  nor  winter  heightens  our  gloom, 
Autumn  hath  foregone  its  moralities,  they  are  hey-pass 
re-pass  [as]  in  a  show-box.  Yet  as  far  as  last  year  occurs 
back,  for  they  scarce  show  a  reflex  now,  they  make  no 
memory  as  heretofore  —  'twas  sufficiently  gloomy.  Let 
the  sullen  nothing  pass. 

Suffice  it  that  after  sad  spirits  prolonged  thro'  many  of 
its  months,  as  it  called  them,  we  have  cast  our  skins, 
have  taken  a  farewell  of  the  pompous  troublesome  trifle 
called  housekeeping,  and  are  settled  down  into  poor 
boarders  and  lodgers  at  next  door  with  an  old  couple, 
the  Baucis  and  Baucida  of  dull  Enfield.  Here  we  have 
nothing  to  do  with  our  victuals  but  to  eat  them,  with 
the  garden  but  to  see  it  grow,  with  the  tax  gatherer  but 
to  hear  him  knock,  with  the  maid  but  to  hear  her 
scolded.  Scot  and  lot,  butcher,  baker,  are  things  un- 
known to  us  save  as  spectators  of  the  pageant.  We 
are  fed  we  know  not  how,  quietists,  confiding  ravens. 
We  have  the  otium  pro  dignitate,  a  respectable  insignifi- 
cance. Yet  in  the  self-condemned  obliviousness,  in  the 
stagnation,  some  molesting  yearnings  of  life,  not  quite 
kilPd,  rise,  prompting  me  that  there  was  a  London,  and 
that  I  was  of  that  old  Jerusalem.  In  dreams  I  am  in 
301 


The  Forlorn  Londoner 

Fleetmarket,  but  I  wake  and  cry  to  sleep  again.  I  die 
hard,  a  stubborn  Eloisa  in  this  detestable  Paraclete. 
What  have  I  gained  by  health  ?  intolerable  dulness. 
What  by  early  hours  and  moderate  meals?  —  a  total 
blank.  O  never  let  the  lying  poets  be  believed,  who 
'tice  men  from  the  cheerful  haunts  of  streets  —  or  think 
they  mean  it  not  of  a  country  village.  In  the  ruins  of 
Palmyra  I  could  gird  myself  up  to  solitude,  or  muse  to 
the  snorings  of  the  Seven  Sleepers,  but  to  have  a  little 
teazing  image  of  a  town  about  one,  country  folks  that 
do  not  look  like  country  folks,  shops  two  yards  square, 
half  a  dozen  apples  and  two  penn'orth  of  overlooked 
gingerbread  for  the  lofty  fruiterers  of  Oxford  Street  — 
and,  for  the  immortal  book  and  print  stalls,  a  circulating 
library  that  stands  still,  where  the  shew-picture  is  a  last 
year's  Valentine,  and  whither  the  fame  of  the  last  ten 
Scotch  novels  has  not  yet  traveled  (marry,  they  just 
begin  to  be  conscious  of  the  Red  Gauntlet),  to  have  a 
new  plastered  flat  church,  and  to  be  wishing  that  it  was 
but  a  Cathedral.  The  very  blackguards  here  are  de- 
generate. The  topping  gentry,  stock  brokers.  The  pas- 
sengers too  many  to  ensure  your  quiet,  or  let  you 
go  about  whistling,  or  gaping — too  few  to  be  the  fine 
indifferent  pageants  of  Fleet  Street.  Confining,  room- 
keeping  thickest  winter  is  yet  more  bearable  here  than 
the  gaudy  months.  Among  one's  books  at  one's  fire  by 
candle  one  is  soothed  into  an  oblivion  that  one  is  not 
in  the  country,  but  with  the  light  the  green  fields  return, 
till  I  gaze,  and  in  a  calenture  can  plunge  myself  into 
Saint  Giles's.  O  let  no  native  Londoner  imagine  that 
health,  and  rest,  and  innocent  occupation,  interchange 
of  converse  sweet  and  recreative  study,  can  make  the 
country  any  thing  better  than  altogether  odious  and 
detestable.  A  garden  was  the  primitive  prison  till  man 
302 


The  Newspaper  Dove 

with  promethean  felicity  and  boldness  luckily  sinn'd  him- 
self out  of  it.  Thence  followed  Babylon,  Nineveh,  Venice, 
London,  haberdashers,  goldsmiths,  taverns,  playhouses, 
satires,  epigrams,  puns  —  these  all  came  in  on  the  town 
part,  and  the  thither  side  of  innocence.  Man  found  out 
inventions. 

From  my  den  I  return  you  condolence  for  your  decay- 
ing sight,  not  for  any  thing  there  is  to  see  in  the  country, 
but  for  the  miss  of  the  pleasure  of  reading  a  London 
newspaper.  The  poets  are  as  well  to  listen  to,  any  thing 
high  may,  nay  must,  be  read  out  —  you  read  it  to  yourself 
with  an  imaginary  auditor  —  but  the  light  paragraphs 
must  be  glid  over  by  the  proper  eye,  mouthing  mumbles 
their  gossamery  substance.  'Tis  these  trifles  I  should 
mourn  in  fading  sight.  A  newspaper  is  the  single  gleam 
of  comfort  I  receive  here,  it  comes  from  rich  Cathay  with 
tidings  of  mankind.  Yet  I  could  not  attend  to  it  read 
out  by  the  most  beloved  voice.  But  your  eyes  do  not  get 
worse,  I  gather.  O  for  the  collyrium  of  Tobias  enclosed 
in  a  whiting's  liver  to  send  you  with  no  apocryphal  good 
wishes  !  The  last  long  time  I  heard  from  you,  you  had 
knocked  your  head  against  something.  Do  not  do  so. 
For  your  head  (I  do  not  flatter)  is  not  a  nob,  or  the  top 
of  a  brass  nail,  or  the  end  of  a  nine-pin  —  unless  a  Vui- 
canian  hammer  could  fairly  batter  a  "  Recluse "  out  of 
it,  then  would  I  bid  the  smirch'd  god  knock  and  knock 
lustily,  the  two-handed  skinker.  What  a  nice  long  letter 
Dorothy  has  written  !  Mary  must  squeeze  out  a  line 
proprid  manu,  but  indeed  her  fingers  have  been  incor- 
rigibly nervous  to  letter-writing  for  a  long  interval. 
'Twill  please  you  all  to  hear  that,  tho'  I  fret  like  a 
lion  in  a  net,  her  present  health  and  spirits  are  better 
than  they  have  been  for  some  time  past  :  she  is  absolutely 
three  years  and  a  half  younger,  as  I  tell  her,  since  we 
303 


Daddy  Westwood 

have  adopted  this  boarding  plan.  Our  providers  are  an 
honest  pair,  dame  Westwood  and  her  husband  —  he,  when 
the  light  of  prosperity  shined  on  them,  -a  moderately 
thriving  haberdasher  within  Bow  Bells,  retired  since  with 
something  under  a  competence,  writes  himself  parcel 
gentleman,  hath  borne  parish  offices,  sings  fine  old  sea 
songs  at  threescore  and  ten,  sighs  only  now  and  then 
when  he  thinks  that  he  has  a  son  on  his  hands  about 
15,  whom  he  finds  a  difficulty  in  getting  out  into  the 
world,  and  then  checks  a  sigh  with  muttering,  as  I 
once  heard  him  prettily,  not  meaning  to  be  heard,  "  I 
have  married  my  daughter  however,*'  —  takes  the  weather 
as  it  comes,  outsides  it  to  town  in  severest  season,  and 
a'  winter  nights  tells  old  stories  not  tending  to  literature, 
how  comfortable  to  author-rid  folks !  and  has  one  anecdote, 
upon  which  and  about  forty  pounds  a  year  he  seems  to 
have  retired  in  green  old  age.  It  was  how  he  was  a 
rider  in  his  youth,  travelling  for  shops,  and  once  (not  to 
baulk  his  employers  bargain)  on  a  sweltering  day  in 
August,  rode  foaming  into  Dunstable  upon  a  mad  horse 
to  the  dismay  and  expostulary  wonderment  of  innkeepers, 
ostlers,  etc.,  who  declared  they  would  not  have  bestrid  the 
beast  to  win  the  Darby.  Understand  the  creature  gail'd 
to  death  and  desperation  by  gad  flies,  cormorants  winged, 
worse  than  beset  Inachus1  daughter.  This  he  tells,  this 
he  brindles  and  burnishes  on  a'  winter's  eves,  His  his  star 
of  set  glory,  his  rejuvenescence  to  descant  upon.  Far 
from  me  be  it  (dii  avertanf)  to  look  a  gift  story  in  the 
mouth,  or  cruelly  to  surmise  (as  those  who  doubt  the 
plunge  of  Curtius)  that  the  inseparate  conjuncture  of 
man  and  beast,  the .  centaur-phenomenon  that  staggered 
all  Dunstable,  might  have  been  the  effect  of  unromantic 
necessity,  that  the  horse-part  carried  the  reasoning,  willy 
nilly,  that  needs  must  when  such  a  devil  drove,  that 
3°4 


A  Portrait 

certain  spiral  configurations  in  the  frame  of  Thomas 
Westwood  unfriendly  to  alighting,  made  the  alliance 
more  forcible  than  voluntary.  Let  him  enjoy  his  fame 
for  me,  nor  let  me  hint  a  whisper  that  shall  dismount 
Bellerophon.  Put  case  he  was  an  involuntary  martyr, 
yet  if  in  the  fiery  conflict  he  buckled  the  soul  of  a 
constant  haberdasher  to  him,  and  adopted  his  flames, 
let  Accident  and  He  share  the  glory!  You  would  all 
like  Thomas  Westwood. 


How  weak  is  painting  to  describe  a  man !  Say  that  he 
stands  four  feet  and  a  nail  high  by  his  own  yard  measure, 
which  like  the  Sceptre  of  Agamemnon  shall  never  sprout 
again,  still  you  have  no  adequate  idea,  nor  when  I  tell  you 
that  his  dear  hump,  which  I  have  favoured  in  the  picture, 
seems  to  me  of  the  Buffalo  —  indicative  and  repository 
of  mild  qualities,  a  budget  of  kindnesses,  still  you  have 
not  the  man.  Knew  you  old  Norris  of  the  Temple,  60 
years  ours  and  our  father's  friend,  he  was  not  more 
natural  to  us  than  this  old  W.  the  acquaintance  of 
scarce  more  weeks.  Under  his  roof  now  ought  I  to 
take  my  rest,  but  that  back-looking  ambition  tells  me  I 
might  yet  be  a  Londoner.  Well,  if  we  ever  do  move, 
we  have  encumbrances  the  less  to  impede  us :  all  our 
furniture  has  faded  under  the  auctioneer's  hammer,  going 
for  nothing  like  the  tarnish'd  frippery  of  the  prodigal, 
and  we  have  only  a  spoon  or  two  left  to  bless  us. 
Clothed  we  came  into  Enfield,  and  naked  we  must  go  out 
of  it.  I  would  live  in  London  shirtless,  bookless.  Henry 
*  305 


Emma  Isola 

Crabb  is  at  Rome,  advices  to  that  effect  have  reached 
Bury.  But  by  solemn  legacy  he  bequeathed  at  parting 
(whether  he  should  live  or  die)  a  Turkey  of  Suffolk  to  be 
sent  every  succeeding  Xmas  to  us  and  divers  other  friends. 
What  a  genuine  old  Bachelor's  action!  I  fear  he  will 
find  the  air  of  Italy  too  classic.  His  station  is  in  the 
Hartz  forest,  his  soul  is  Begcfethed.  Miss  Kelly  we 
never  see ;  Talfourd  not  this  half-year ;  the  latter 
flourishes,  but  the  exact  number  of  his  children,  God 
forgive  me,  I  have  utterly  forgotten,  we  single  people  are 
often  out  in  our  count  there.  Shall  I  say  two?  One 
darling  I  know  they  have  lost  within  a  twelvemonth,  but 
scarce  known  to  me  by  sight,  and  that  was  a  second  child 
lost.  We  see  scarce  anybody.  We  have  just  now  Emma 
with  us  for  her  holydays :  you  remember  her  playing  at 
brag  with  Mr.  Quillinan  at  poor  Monkhouse's!  She  is 
grown  an  agreeable  young  woman ;  she  sees  what  I 
write,  so  you  may  understand  me  with  limitations.  She 
was  our  inmate  for  a  twelvemonth,  grew  natural  to  us, 
and  then  they  told  us  it  was  best  for  her  to  go  out  as  a 
Governess,  and  so  she  went  out,  and  we  were  only  two 
of  us,  and  our  pleasant  house-mate  is  changed  to  an 
occasional  visitor.  If  they  want  my  sister  to  go  out  (as 
they  call  it)  there  will  be  only  one  of  us.  Heaven  keep 
us  all  from  this  acceding  to  Unity! 

Can   I  cram  loves  enough  to  you  all  in  this  little  O? 
Excuse  particularising.  C.  L. 


306 


XIV 
THE  MEN  OF  ACTION 

% 

Abraham  Cann,  the  Devonshire  wrestler,  challenges 
Polkinghorne,  the  Cornishman  x^>  ^> 

POLKINGHORNE,  I  will  take  off  my  stockings  and 
play  bare-legged  with  you,  and  you  may  have  two 
of  the  hardest  and  heaviest  shoes  you  like  that  can  be 
made  of  leather  in  the  county  of  Cornwall,  and  you  shall 
be  allowed  to  stuff  yourself  as  high  as  the  arm  pits,  to 
any  extent  not  exceeding  the  size  of  a  Cornish  peck  of 
wool ;  and  I  will  further  engage  not  to  kick  you,  if  you 
do  not  kick  me. 


C.  A.,  an  old  and  not  unsophisticated  bowler,  gives 
his  captain  a  word  of  counsel  on  the  eve  of  the 
All  England  match  x^>  ^>  ^>  *^x 

DEAR  JOHN,  —  So  I    am  to  bowl  for  your  people 
against   them    Englanders.       You  wants   to    win, 
don't  you  now  ?     Then  don't  be  so  stupid  as  to  roll  your 
ground.  —  Yours,  C.  A. 

307 


"The  ball  is  c  over" 

Bob  Thorns  the  umpire  sends  in  his  resignation       <^y 
(To  Sir  William  Russell  of  the  Incognito  C.C.) 

March  15,  1901,  N.  W. 

SIR,  — The  hardest  letter,  that  ever  I  handled  the  pen, 
to  write,  I  now  commence,  and  that  is,  through  fail- 
ing  health  —  coupled  with  "  Anno  Domini" — I  have   to 
close  my  Cricket  career — after  39  years  of  devoted  ser- 
vices to  the  Incognito  club. 

I  had  hoped  to  have  been  with  you  one  more  season 
—  in  the  new  Century  —  but  not  having  wintered  well  has 
upset  that  hope. 

I  cannot  find  words  sufficiently  expressive  to  thank  the 
old  Club  —  and  its  members  —  for  the  many  kindnesses 
received,  and  for  the  confidence  that  has  been  reposed 
in  me. 

It  is  a  source  of  intense  gratification  to  me  to  think  — 
and  know  that  I  have  been  associated  with  the  "  Incog- 
nito Club  "  ever  since  it  was  first  started  in  1861  — when 
the  late  Mr.  Pincott  Hemming  was  its  Secretary  —  and  to 
call  to  mind,  that  since  that  time,  the  club,  by  the  cease- 
less energy  and  watchfulness  of  his  Brother —  Sir  Augustus 
W.  L.  Hemming  —  was  brought  forward  and  placed,  in 
the  prominent  position,  of  being  one  of  the  most  popular 
of  the  wandering  clubs  in  England.  I  cannot  enter 
further  into  the  past,  for  the  subject,  is  too  depressing 
for  me  to  dwell  on,  so  therefore,  I  must  at  once  return  — 
again  —  my  sincere  and  heartfelt  thanks,  and  my  last 
words  shall  be,  the  fervent  hope,  that  "Health,  Happi- 
ness and  Prosperity"  may  attend  all  "Incogs"  —  and  thus 
I  conclude  —  with  my  well  known  exclamation,  The  ball 
is  "over"  gentlemen, — and  respectfully  subscribe — Your 
faithful  servant,  ROBERT  THOMS 

308 


"  Half  Hours  with  the  Worst  Authors  " 

Edward  FitzGerald  recommends  two  letters    -^    *^y 

(To  Charles  Keene) 

Friday  [1880] 

MY  DEAR  KEENE,  — . ..  .  Beckford's  Hunting  is 
an  old  friend  of  mine :  excellently  written ;  such 
a  relief  (like  Wesley  and  the  religious  men)  to  the 
Essayist  style  of  the  time. 

Do  not  fail  to  read  the  capital  Squire's  Letter  in  recom- 
mendation of  a  Stable-man,  dated  from  Great  Addington, 
Northants,  1734:  of  which  some  little  is  omitted  after 
Edition  I. ;  which  edition  has  also  a  Letter  from  Beckford's 
Huntsman  about  a  wicked  "Daufter,"  wholly  omitted. 
This  first  Edition  is  a  pretty  small  4to  1781,  with  a 
Frontispiece  by  Cipriani  !  .  .  . 

If  you  come  down  this  Spring,  but  not  before  May,  I 
will  show  you  some  of  these  things  in  a  Book  I  have, 
which  I  might  call  "  Half  Hours  with  the  Worst  Authors," 
and  very  fine  things  by  them. 

It  would  be  the  very  best  Book  of  the  sort  ever 
published,  if  published;  but  no  one  would  think  so 
but  myself,  and  perhaps  you,  and  half  a  dozen  more. 
If  my  Eyes  hold  out  I  will  copy  a  delightful  bit  by  way 
of  return  for  your  Ballad. 

I 

An  old  Squire  (a  friend  of  Peter  Beckford)  supplies  a 
gentleman  with  an  impartial  character  of  John 
Gray  ^>  ^>  ^>  ^>  «o  *o 

SIR,  —  Yours  I  received  the  24th  of  this  present  instant, 
June,   and,   at   your    request,  will  give  you  an  im- 
partial  account  of  my  man  John  Gray's  character.      He 
309 


A  Character 

is  a  shoemaker,  or  cordwainer,  which  you  please  to  call 
it,  by  trade,  and  now  in  our  town ;  he  is  following  the 
carding  business  for  every  one  that  wants  him  ;  he  served 
his  time  at  a  town  called  Binstock,  in  Northamptonshire ; 
and  from  thence  the  Great  Addington  journeyman,  to  this 
occupation,  as  before  mentioned,  and  used  to  come  to  my 
house,  and  found,  by  riding  my  horses  to  water,  that  he 
rode  a  horse  pretty  well ;  which  was  not  at  all  mistaken, 
for  he  rides  a  horse  well :  and  he  looks  after  a  kennel  of 
hounds  very  well,  and  finds  a  hare  very  well :  he  hath  no 
judgment  in  hunting  a  pack  of  hounds  now,  though  he 
rides  well,  he  don't  with  discretion,  for  he  don't  know  how 
to  make  the  most  of  a  horse ;  but  a  very  harey-starey 
fellow :  will  ride  over  a  church  if  in  his  way,  though  he 
may  prevent  a  leap  by  having  a  gap  within  ten  yards  of 
him ;  and  if  you  are  not  in  the  field  with  himself,  when 
you  are  hunting  to  tutor  him  about  riding,  he  will  kill  all 
the  horses  you  have  in  the  stable  in  one  month,  for  he 
hath  killed  downright,  and  lamed  so  that  they  will  never 
be  fit  for  use,  no  more  than  five  horses  since  he  has 
hunted  my  hounds,  which  is  two  years  and  upwards ;  he 
can  talk  no  dog  language  to  a  hound ;  he  hath  no  voice ; 
speaks  to  a  hound  such  as  if  his  head  were  in  a  churn ; 
nor  neither  does  he  know  how  to  draw  a  hound  when 
they  are  at  a  loss,  no  more  than  a  child  of  two  years 
old.  As  to  his  honesty,  I  always  found  him  honest  till 
about  a  week  ago.  I  sent  my  servant  that  I  have  now  to 
fetch  some  sheep's  feet  from  Mr.  Stanjan,  of  Higham 
Ferrers,  where  Gray  used  to  go  for  feet,  and  I  always 
send  my  money  by  the  man  that  brings  the  feet ;  and 
Stanjan  told  my  man  that  I  have  now  that  I  owed  him. 
money  for  feet ;  and  when  the  man  came  home  he  told 
me,  and  I  went  to  Stanjan,  and  then  I  found  the  truth 
of  the  matter.  Gray  had  kept  the  money  in  his  hands, 


Light  o'   Love 

and  had  never  paid  Stanjan :  he  had  along  with  me 
once  for  a  letter,  in  order  for  his  character,  to  give  him 
one,  but  I  told  him  I  could  not  give  him  a  good  one,  so  I 
would  not  write  at  all.  Gray  is  a  very  great  drunkard, 
can't  keep  a  penny  in  his  pocket :  a  sad  notorious  lyar. 
If  you  send  him  upon  a  mile  or  two  from  Uppingham,  he 
will  get  drunk,  stay  all  day,  and  never  come  home  until 
the  middle  of  the  night,  or  such  time  as  he  knows  his 
master  is  in  bed.  He  can  nor  will  not  keep  any  secret ; 
neither  has  he  so  much  wit  as  other  people,  for  the  fellow 
is  half  a  fool,  for  if  you  would  have  business  done  with 
expedition,  if  he  once  gets  out  of  the  town,  or  sight  of 
you,  shall  see  him  no  more,  while  the  next  morning  he 
serves  me  so  and  so :  you  must  expect  the  same  if  you 
hire  him.  I  use  you  just  as  I  would  be  used  myself;  if 
I  desired  a  character  of  you  of  a  servant,  that  I  had 
design'd  to  hire  of  yours,  as  to  let  you  know  the  truth  of 
every  thing  about  him. 

I  am,  sir,  your  most  humble  servant  to  command. 

P.S.  —  He  takes  good  care  of  his  horses,  with  good 
looking  after  as  to  the  dressing  of  them ;  but  if  you 
don't  take  care,  he  will  fill  the  manger  full  of  corn,  so 
that  he  will  clog  the  horses,  and  ruin  the  whole  stable  of 
horses. 

GREAT  ADDINGTON,  June  28,  1734 

II 

A  huntsman  informs  his  master  of  the  misfortune  of 
his  daughter  and  the  state  of  the  hounds          ^^ 

HONORED   SIR,  —  I   beg  your  honouers   pardon   a 
thousand  times  my  wicked  daufter  is  brout  to  bed 
this  day  God  be  praisd  the  child  Is  dead  har  mother 


Tom  Moody 

nor  I  new  nothing  of  it  nor  nobody  as  I  can  hear  off  tis 

that  vile  fellow  R P at as  he  has  acted 

such  a  Roges  part  she  shall  not  have  him  by  no  means 
I  am  all  most  at  my  wits  end  I  don't  now  what  to  do. 
I  bag  your  honouer  will  Consider  me  and  Let  har  stay 
in  har  place  I  don't  hear  but  that  all  har  fellow  sarvants 
likes  har  very  well  I  have  been  out  with  the  hounds  this 
day  to  ayer  the  frost  is  very  bad  the  hounds  are  all  pure 
well  at  present  and  horses  shepard  has  had  a  misfortin 
with  his  mare  she  hung  harself  with  the  holter  and  throd 
har  self  and  broak  har  neck  and  frac  tard  skul  so  we 
wus  forsd  to  nock  har  In  the  head  from  your  ever 

dutyful  Humbel  Sarvant. 

*  *  *  *     ****** 

Wednesday  evening 


George  Forester  (of  Shropshire)  gives  Mr.  Chambers 
an  account  of  the  death  and  funeral  of  Tom 
Moody,  his  great  whipper-in  ^y  ^>  ^^y 

DEAR  CHAMBERS, —  On  Tuesday  last  was  buried 
poor  Tom  Moody,  as  good  for  rough  and  smooth 
as  ever  entered  Wildman's  Wood.  He  died  brave  and 
honest,  as  he  lived  —  beloved  by  all,  hated  by  none  that 
ever  knew  him.  I  took  his  own  orders  as  to  his  will, 
funeral,  and  every  other  thing  that  could  be  thought  of. 

He  died  sensible  and  fully  collected  as  ever  man  died 
—  in  short,  died  game  to  the  last;  for  when  he  could 
hardly  swallow,  the  poor  old  lad  took  the  farewell  glass 
for  success  to  fox-hunting  and  his  poor  old  master  (as 
he  termed  it),  for  ever,  I  am  his  sole  executor,  and  the 
bulk  of  his  fortune  he  left  to  me  —  six  and  twenty  shillings, 
real  and  bona  fide  sterling  cash,  free  from  all  incum- 
312 


"Old  Soul" 

brances,  after  every  debt  discharged  to  a  farthing.  Noble 
deeds  for  Tom,  you'd  say.  The  poor  old  ladies  at  the 
Ring  of  Bells  are  to  have  a  knot  each  in  remembrance 
of  the  poor  old  lad. 

Salop  paper  will  show  the  whole  ceremony  of  his 
burial,  but  for  fear  you  should  not  see  that  paper  —  I 
send  it  to  you  as  under. 

"Sportsmen,  attend. — On  Tuesday,  2Qth  inst.,  was 
buried  at  Barrow,  near  Wenlock,  Salop,  Thomas  Moody, 
a  well-known  whipper-in  to  G.  Forester,  Esq.'s  fox-hounds 
for  twenty  years.  He  was  carried  to  the  grave  by  a 
proper  number  of  earth-stoppers,  and  attended  by  many 
other  sporting  friends,  who  heartily  mourned  for  him." 

Directly  after  the  corpse,  followed  his  old  favourite 
horse  (which  he  always  called  his  "  Old  Soul "),  thus 
accoutred :  carrying  his  last  fox's  brush  in  front  of 
his  bridle,  with  his  cap,  whip,  boots,  spurs,  and  girdle 
across  the  saddle.  The  ceremony  being  over,  he  (by 
his  own  desire),  had  three  clear,  rattling  view-halloos 
o'er  his  grave  ;  and  thus  ended  the  career  of  poor  Tom, 
who  lived  and  died  an  honest  fellow,  but  alas!  a  very 
wet  one. 

I  hope  you  and  your  family  are  well,  and  you'll  believe 
me  as  much  yours,  G.  FORESTER 


Sergeant  Dunt  craves  permission  to   fish  a  little  in 
Col.  Cartwright's  stream      -^^      ^^      *o      *^y 

WEEDON  BARRACKS,  May  12,  1856 
T  TONOURABLE  SIR,  —A  discharged  sergeant  of  the 
J-  J-   Rifle   Brigade,  and   one    who    had  the   honour  of 
serving    in   the   same  company,  and   in   more  than   one 
campaign  under  the  command  of  the  gallant  and  much 


A  Favoured  Stream 

* 

lamented  Captain  Cartwright  (killed  in  the  Crimea), 
now  makes  bold  to  solicit  of  his  honoured  and  bereaved 
parent  a  written  permission  to  angle  of  an  evening  in 
that  wealthy  brook,  which  pursuing  its  way  by  Divine 
Will  through  your  Honour's  extensive  domains,  encourages 
and  compensates  the  fertilising  efforts  of  your  Honour's 
tenants,  adds  a  cheerful  vivacity  to  the  face  of  nature, 
seasonably  serene,  and  furnishes  of  its  finny  population 
many  impressive  convictions  of  the  kind,  unceasing 
regard  of  our  Great  Creator  in  the  various  sustenance, 
delicate  and  invigorating,  for  the  more  worthy  portion  of 
His  laborious  creatures. 

Trusting,  Sir,  that  indulgent  time  is  reconciling  you  to 
the  fate  of  my  kind,  deceased  officer,  your  much-beloved 
and  lamented  son,  and  that  your  Honour  will  condescend 
to  befriend  the  man  whom  that  son  so  often  befriended, 
I  remain,  Honourable  Sir,  with  all  due  respect,  your 
Honour's  most  humble  and  devoted  servant  and  faithful 
soldier,  JOHN  DUNT 

WAR  DEPARTMENT,  WEEDON  BARRACKS 

Captain  Nelson   tells  Collingwood  of  his  hopes  and 
fears  with  regard  to  the  French       *o       x^     xo 

"CAPTAIN" — LEGHORN  ROADS,  August  i,  1796 

MY  DEAR  COLL.,  —  The  Viceroy  tells  me  that  you 
are  at  Fiorenzo  ;  therefore  I  take  my  chance  of  this 
finding  you.  My  date  makes  me  think  I  am  almost  at 
Leghorn ;  soon  I  hope  to  be  there  in  reality.  Except 
1700  poor  devils,  all  are  gone  to  join  the  army. 
Sometimes  I  hope,  at  others  despair  of  getting  these 
starved  Leghornese  to  cut  the  throats  of  the  French 
crew. 

3H 


An  Idea  for  a  Christian 

What  an  idea  for  a  Christian !  I  hope  there  is  a  great 
latitude  for  us  in  the  next  world 

This  blockade  is  complete,  and  we  lie  very  snug  in  the 
North  Road,  as  smooth  as  in  a  harbour. 

I  have  this  moment  received  information  that  the  post 
from  Naples,  which  arrived  to-day,  has  brought  accounts 
that  the  truce  with  Naples  finishes,  and  hostilities  com- 
mence to-morrow.  Pray  God  it  may  be  so!  With  a  most 
sincere  wish  for  driving  the  French  to  the  devil,  your  good 
health,  an  honourable  peace,  us  safe  at  home  again,  I 
conclude  by  assuring  you,  my  dear  Collingwood,  of  my 
unalterable  friendship  and  regard,  and  that  I  am,  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  words,  yours  most  truly, 

HORATIO  NELSON 


3IS 


XV 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Sir  William  Napier  tells  Lady  Hester  Stanhope  the 
story  of  his  life        x^       *^>-      ^>      ^>       *^y 

FRESHFORD,  March  1839 

DEAR,  DEAR  LADY  HESTER,— I  wish  from  the 
bottom  of  my  worn  out  heart  that  I  could  once 
more  see  and  talk  to  you,  the  friend  of  my  youth,  when  I 
was  full  of  hope  and  cared  little  for  the  frowns  and  pains  of 
the  world.  I  too  could  tell  of  many  things  that  would  be 
strange,  strange  as  belonging  to  that  England  which  you 
and  I  once  thought  we  knew,  a  proud  and  generous 
nation.  It  is  not  so  now.  Gold  is  an  Englishman's  god 
—  gold  and  ostentation  of  gold  ;  for  this  they  live  and  die. 
Generous  sentiments  are  scarce,  magnanimous  actions 
scarcer.  Napoleon  was  cast  to  perish  on  a  rock  under 
brutal  insult ;  you,  the  niece  of  Mr.  Pitt,  are  subject  to  the 
persecutions  of  Lord  Palmerston.  Yet  we  are  on  the  eve 
of  great  and  terrible  changes  —  I  fear  not  for  the  better, 
because  gold  is  still  the  moving  power.  But  there  are 
powerful  passions  excited.  The  working  men  of  Eng- 
land, driven  by  long  oppression  to  violence,  are  arming 


Sir  Charles  Napier 

universally ;  and  as  they  have  bad  leaders  blood  will  flow 
without  utility. 

You  demand  a  history  of  me  and  mine.  It  is  painful 
to  relate ;  to  me  painful.  My  old  mother  died  long  ago, 
she  was  eighty  four.  Two  of  my  sisters  live,  one 
unmarried ;  the  other  has  been  for  years  married  to  Sir 
Henry  Bunbury.  His  first  wife  was  my  wife's  sister,  his 
second  my  own  sister ;  he  has  four  sons  by  his  first  mar- 
riage, none  by  his  second. 

My  eldest  brother  Charles  has  been  twice  married ;  he 
has  two  very  young  children,  girls.  It  was  he  you  heard 
from  in  the  Ionian  Isles,  where  he  has  by  his  talent, 
activity,  and  good  government,  and  the  great  public 
works  he  carried  on,  left  a  good  name  that  will  not  be 
suffered  to  die  away  by  the  Greeks.  His  numerous 
wounds,  seven  and  very  severe,  have  not  impaired  his 
activity  or  whitened  his  head.  This  month  he  takes  the 
command  of  the  northern  district  of  England ;  it  is  a  fear- 
ful command  at  this  time,  but  he  is  modelled  after  your 
men  of  the  far  East.  His  book  would  entertain  you  much  ; 
it  is  full  of  painful  interest  also,  for  he  writes  well  and 
acts  well ;  nevertheless,  I  believe  that  it  is  not  his  book 
that  you  have  heard  of,  but  my  book ;  of  that  hereafter. 

My  second  brother  George  has  lost  his  arm;  like  a 
brave  man  he  lost  it  on  the  top  of  the  breach  at  Ciudad 
Rodrigo  in  1812.  He  married  a  Scotch  lady,  and  has  three 
sons  and  two  daughters,  the  youngest  about  18;  his 
wife  died  after  the  birth  of  the  last  child,  and  he,  with  a 
steadiness  of  sorrow  and  principle  not  common,  devoted 
himself  to  the  education  of  his  children.  He  and  Charles 
are  generals  and  Knights  of  the  Bath,  and  George  is 
Governor  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  Two  of  his  sons 
are  with  him.  His  policy  is  to  protect  the  Caffres  from  the 
gold-seeking  rapacity  of  the  English  and  Dutch  settlers. 
317 


"Black  Charles" 

He  has  a  hard  task,  but  his  soul  is  honest  and  his  heart 
true  and  firm  as  steel,  and  he  has  withal  a  good  head. 

Richard  did  not  pursue  the  law.  He  married  a  widow, 
a  very  clever  and  beautiful  person ;  his  pursuits  and 
his  wife's  are  alike ;  they  have  both  great  talent,  great 
learning,  have  high  and  warm  imaginations,  delighting 
in  poetry  and  noble  writing,  and  he  is  by  nature  a  poet 
himself;  yet  their  particular  pursuit,  strange  to  say,  is 
political  economy,  and  I  think  it  is  not  unlikely  he  may 
some  day  publish  a  book  on  that  subject. 

Henry,  the  youngest  of  us,  is  a  post  captain  of  the  navy. 
He  married  his  cousin.  He  was  rich,  happy,  and  his  wife 
good,  affectionate,  and  one  of  the  most  lovely  of  God's 
creatures.  Alas!  she  died  suddenly  about  two  years  ago, 
leaving  him  with  four  children,  a  broken-hearted  miser- 
able man.  He  devotes  himself  to  his  children;  their 
mother  was  thirty  when  she  died.  He  has  written  a 
History  of  Florence,  but  it  is  not  yet  published. 

What  now  shall  I  tell  you?  My  own  tale?  I  like  it  not,  yet 
I  will  tell  it  to  you  and  truly ;  but  first  permit  me  to  join 
to  my  brother's  history  that  of  our  cousin  Charles,  "  Black 
Charles,"  they  call  him.  He  is  not  a  brother,  but  I  claim 
a  place  for  him  because  he  is  a  great  man,  though  a 
strange  one.  A  life  of  daring  and  enterprise  in  our  navy  as 
a  captain  created  him  a  name  which  attracted  the  Portu- 
guese Emperor  Don  Pedro's  attention.  Black  Charles 
was  offered  the  command  of  his  fleet;  he  accepted  it, 
and  in  one  action,  against  the  most  overpowering  advan- 
tages on  the  enemy's  side,  decided  the  fate  of  Portugal. 
He  is  now  going  out  in  command  of  the  Powerful,  74,  to 
the  Levant,  and  you  may  perhaps  hear  of  him  again ;  a 
rough  black  diamond,  but  a  sure  hand  in  war.  Thus 
you  see  that  we  have  not  let  our  name  sink  in  the  world, 
and  yet  we  have  been  honest,  and  what  has  been  a  sore 

318 


Charles  Fox's  Daughter 

stumbling  block  in  our  way,  independent ;  always  opposed 
to  the  powers  that  be,  and  yet  able  to  force  our  way  to 
notice  though  not  to  riches.  I  would  willingly  dwell 
longer  upon  his  exploits,  but  they  must  have  reached 
you  even  on  Mount  Lebanon. 

Now  again  for  myself.  Why  did  you  ask  me?  I  must 
rip  up  old  sorrows  and  probe  wounds  that  have  never 
healed.  I  am  a  broken  man ;  broken,  though  not  bent, 
—  the  world  has  failed  to  do  that;  and  I  can  still  make 
my  enemies  beware  of  treading  on  me.  But  I  will  tell 
you  all  truly ;  I  have  played  my  part  and  continue  to  do 
so  in  the  world. 

It  has  been  in  my  power  to  raise  a  civil  war,  and 
it  may  be  so  again,  but  I  abhor  such  a  proceeding. 
Yet  I  am  courted  and  feared  without  reason ;  for  sorrow 
and  pain,  continual  sorrow  and  continual  pain,  have 
almost  if  not  quite  unsettled  my  reason ;  at  least 
I  am  conscious  that  I  had  another  mind  once.  I 
do  not  think  I  was  married  when  you  left  England ; 
my  wife  was  the  daughter  of  Charles  Fox.  She  lives 
to  take  care  of  me  when  I  want  care,  and  she  is  a 
person  capable  of  great  things ;  fortitude  and  judg- 
ment, and  energy  mental  and  bodily,  she  possesses  in  an 
extraordinary  degree.  When  I  married  I  was  sanguine 
and  confident  that  I  could  go  far  in  the  world.  Secretly 
I  thought  God  had  given  me  the  head  and  heart  of  a 
warrior,  and  my  body  was  then  of  iron.  Well!  I  won 
my  spurs  honourably.  Three  decorations  and  two  steps 
of  rank  I  gained  in  the  field  of  battle.  Wellington  gave 
them  to  me ;  and  I  am  a  Companion  of  the  Bath,  —  no 
great  thing ;  but  I  could  have  safely  rested  my  claim  upon 
the  testimony  of  my  soldiers.  Ah!  those  soldiers,  the 
few  that  are  now  living  are  poor  and  miserable,  for 
England  despises  her  former  defenders.  My  regiment, 


A  Crichton 

the  43rd,  was  one  of  the  three  regiments  that  formed  the 
Light  Division,  always  in  contact  with  the  enemy ;  those 
three  regiments  were  avowedly  the  best  that  England 
ever  had  under  arms ;  this  is  no  idle  boast ;  war  was 
better  known,  the  art  more  advanced,  under  Napoleon 
than  in  any  age  of  the  world  before,  and  the  French 
veterans,  those  victors  of  a  thousand  battles,  never 
could  stand  an  instant  before  my  gallant  men.  Curse 
on  the  liars,  the  cowardly  calumniators,  who  have  told 
you  that  Irishmen  are  cowards!  they  are  equal  to  the 
English  in  bravery,  superior  to  them  in  hardihood  of 
sufferance  and  in  devotion  to  their  officers  in  the  hour 
of  trouble ;  and  they  are  superior  to  the  Scotch  in  every- 
thing, and  yet  there  are  very  good  soldiers  among  the 
Scotch  ;  I  like  them  not,  but  I  will  not  belie  them. 

Was  not  mine  a  fair  stand  for  distinction?  Peace 
came,  and  I  am  a  colonel  still!  I  had  no  money;  and 
younger  officers,  some  of  them  bad,  were  ready  to 
purchase  over  my  head;  others  were  thrust  without 
money  over  me.  I  had  gained  the  brevet  rank,  but  I 
could  not  gain  the  regimental  rank ;  the  first  was  tc 
be  got  on  the  field,  and  I  got  it ;  the  second  was  to  be 
got  by  money  or  favour,  and  I  had  neither,  so  I  went  or 
half-pay,  and  tried  to  still  the  gnawing  of  the  worm  by 
occupation  of  a  different  kind.  I  painted  in  oils,  and 
was  elected  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy.  1 
modelled  in  clay,  and  Chantrey,  the  first  of  moderr 
sculptors,  proposed  and  got  me  elected  as  sculptor  in 
the  Savants'  Club,  called  the  Athenaeum.  But  the  worm 
gnawed  still.  I  wrote  reviews,  and  I  was  successful :  m} 
first  was  to  defend  Sir  John  Moore.  To  you  I  need  nol 
speak  of  that  great  and  heroic  man,  nor  of  his  wrongs 
Southey  wrote  a  history  of  the  Peninsular  War ;  it  was 
smooth  and  clear  in  style,  but  nerveless  as  the  author1* 
320 


Justice  to  France 

mind,  except  where  his  political  rancour  broke  out  to 
destroy  Sir  John  Moore's  reputation  and  to  calumniate 
the  French  army.  For  the  latter  I  cared  only  as  it  was 
disgraceful  to  my  country  to  malign  a  brave  though 
vanquished  enemy;  but  for  the  first  I  felt  as  you  would 
have  felt.  I  was  going  to  write  a  commentary,  but  I 
soon  saw  that  to  beat  the  false  history  I  must  write  a 
true  one ;  the  task  was  formidable,  but  I  have  done  it ; 
I  have  beaten  the  calumniator  and  established  my  History 
in  the  world's  good  opinion.  I  have  done  more ;  without 
yielding  one  jot  of  England's  glory  I  have  by  just  and 
fair  admission  of  the  prowess  of  France  obtained  the 
public  assent  of  the  French  Generals  to  the  truth  of  my 
relation ;  I  have  thus  solved  the  difficult  problem  of 
recording  the  defeats  of  a  vain,  proud,  fiery,  and  learned 
people,  without  losing  their  approbation ;  I  have  obtained 
the  testimony  to  the  glory  of  the  British  arms,  and  thus 
placed  the  latter  upon  a  rock.  Many  enemies  in  England 
I  have  created  by  this ;  I  should  have  doubted  the  value 
of  my  work  if  it  had  not  been  so.  Truth  must  be  offen- 
sive to  many.  But  I  have  also  many  supporters,  because 
truth  is  powerful ;  and  though  my  History  wants  one 
volume  still  to  complete  it,  the  first  five  volumes  have 
been  already  translated  into  French,  into  Spanish  in 
South  America,  and  reprinted  in  North  America;  it  is 
also  translated,  or  being  translated,  into  Italian  and 
German ;  and  I  have  been  elected  a  member  of  Military 
Sciences  in  Sweden. 

My  English  enemies  are  virulent  and  numerous,  but  I 
have  met  them  all,  and  hitherto  triumphed,  and  I  will 
meet  them  as  long  as  I  can  speak,  write,  or  pull  a  trigger. 
I  like  not  republicanism:  I  desire  to  see  men  of  all 
classes  as  God  designed  them  to  be,  free  in  thought  and 
unabashed  in  mien,  but  virtuous  and  obedient  to  the  just 
Y  321 


The  Duke  of  Wellington 

institutions  of  society.  I  do  not  spurn  at  kings  and  nobles, 
but  I  like  not  that  they  should  spurn  at  me.  Would  that 
we  had  a  great  man !  Changes  are  at  hand ;  the  masses 
are  in  movement,  but  there  is  none  to  guide  them,  and 
they  will  clash  for  mischief. 

I  am  well  pleased  to  do  some  good,  but  what  can  a 
man  do  who  dare  not  encounter  a  shower  of  rain  lest 
he  should  lose  the  use  of  his  limbs  for  six  months? 
Where  is  Wellington  at  this  crisis?  you  will  say.  Alas! 
he  is  great  by  the  head,  not  by  the  heart,  and  that  is  only 
half  the  greatness  required.  He  is  of  commanding  in- 
tellect, .commanding  courage,  commanding  honesty ;  but 
he  despises  the  people,  has  too  many  prejudices  opposed 
to  their  feelings,  and  they  hate  and  fear  him.  He  cannot 
work  with  them  because  he  will  not  work  for  them.  The 
rest  are  nothing.  I  have,  as  I  have  told  you,  great 
influence  with  the  people,  but  it  will  not  last ;  I  can  do 
evil,  but  not  much  good ;  I  know  well  what  to  oppose, 
but  not  what  to  assist,  for  there  is  much  evil  striving  on 
all  sides,  and  my  worn-out  body  will  not  allow  me  to 
engage  in  anything  requiring  exertion  of  limb.  Do  not 
mistake  me  or  imagine  that  I  mistake  myself.  I  do  not 
suppose  myself  a  great  man,  but  I  have  certain  talents 
and  knowledge  which  have  given  me  a  power  in  the 
present  conjuncture  that  might  be  turned  to  good  or  bad 
if  I  had  bodily  strength,  and  I  have  it  not.  Well! 
enough  of  this  matter. 

I  strive  to  put  off  the  tale  of  my  sorrows  as  long  as 
possible.  I  have  had  ten  children ;  seven  still  live,  six 
girls  and  a  boy,  but  he  is  deaf  and  dumb.  Three  girls 
died  —  the  first  young,  very  young ;  it  was  written ;  I 
wept  for  her,  and  so  it  ended.  The  next  died  at  five 
years  old.  She  was  also  deaf  and  dumb,  and  that  caused 
her  death.  I  will  not  tell  you  how ;  I  cannot ;  but  twelve 
323 


"The  good   Pitt  blood" 

years  ago  she  died,  and  I  have  not  been  as  I  should  be 
since.  Should  I  tell  you  how  more  than  human  her 
beauty  was,  and  how  exquisite  her  intelligence,  notwith- 
standing her  deafness,  you  would  not  believe  me,  but 
though  I  am  at  times  insane  I  am  not  doting.  Six  years 
after  her  death  my  eldest  child  was  torn  from  me  by 
consumption ;  she  was  fair  and  joyous  as  the  day,  tall 
and  beautiful,  strong  of  heart,  and  clear  of  head ;  yet  a 
few  short  months  sufficed  to  send  her  at  the  age  of 
eighteen  from  the  admiration  of  the  world,  to  her  grave. 
I  would  tell  you  more  about  my  dear  children,  only  I 
cannot.  I  have  seven  still.  .  .  . 

Lord  Chatham,  the  Lord  Chatham's  Correspondence  is 
being  published  by  his  grand-nephews,  Captain  Pringle 
of  the  Guards  and  his  brother.  Two  volumes  are  out, 
but  as  yet  there  is  not  much  interest  attached  to  them, 
so  I  suppose  the  valuable  papers  are  reserved  for  the 
other  volumes;  when  I  say  interest,  I  mean  proportion- 
ably  to  the  man's  fame,  for  there  is  curious  reading  in 
them.  Pringle  I  have  had  some  dealings  with,  and  I 
think,  judging  from  his  correspondence  (for  I  have  not 
seen  him)  there  is  a  vein  of  the  good  Pitt  blood  running 
through  him.  Your  men  of  the  East  are,  I  believe, 
superior  individually  to  the  men  of  the  West,  but  each 
man  stalks  through  the  world  like  a  lion;  they  do  not 
herd  together,  nor  work  together,  and  like  lions  they  live 
and  die  and  are  forgotten.  The  horse  is  a  better  animal 
than  the  lion.  You  love  the  brute  creation,  and  so  do  I,  and 
I  love  you  that  you  do  love  them.  The  brute  is  of  the  same 
essence  as  man,  —  an  essence,  however,  more  restricted, 
confined  by  the  inferior  organisation  of  their  bodies, 
therefore  more  condensed  and  honest.  What  are  we  of 
human  species?  Angels  or  devils,  or  a  compound  of 
323 


"The  glorious  Privilege" 

both?  There  must  be  I  think  two  governing  principles, 
God  and  demon,  and  we  partake  of  both.  This  doctrine 
is  Eastern,  and  I  think  it  more  reasonable  than  any 
other. 

I  wonder  whether  you  will  like  my  History?  It  is  no 
whining  affair.  There  is  much  in  it,  that  you  would  not 
like,  but  nothing  I  think  that  would  lessen  your  friendship 
for  me ;  you  might  be  angry,  but  you  would  not  cease  to 
be  my  friend,  and  surely  there  is  nothing  that  you  could 
say  or  do,  however  passionate  at  the  moment,  that  would 
hinder  me  from  being  your  friend,  esteeming  and  rever- 
encing you  as  much  as  I  do  now  and  ever  have  done.  The 
time  I  passed  with  you  at  Mr.  Pitt's  home  at  Putney,  and 
the  few  short  hasty  periods  in  which  [I  had]  the  happi- 
ness of  being  received  by  you  after  his  death  (for  me  at 
least  they  were  few,  too  few,  and  too  short),  are  among 
the  moments  of  my  past  life  remembered  most  vividly 
and  fondly. 

This  letter  runs  on.  How  shall  I  send  it  to  you?  I 
think  I  shall  be  able  to  transmit  it  officially,  for  I  have  still 
some  friends  at  court  who  can  separate  the  politician 
from  the  man. 

Do  not  start  at  my  consideration  for  your  pocket ;  you 
live  in  the  East,  but  I  live  in  England  where  money  is 
the  great  god ;  I  hate  their  god,  —  but  I  worship  some- 
times lest  my  impiety  should  be  observed  and  punished. 
Yes,  I  think  of  money.  Is  not  poverty  despised,  wronged, 
insulted?  and  shall  I  not  tremble  lest  my  good,  my 
innocent,  my  beautiful  girls,  and  my  helpless  boy,  should 
be  consigned  to  such  horrors?  My  life  is  not  worth  a 
year's  purchase ;  who  shall  protect  them  after  my  death 
if  they  be  poor?  For  their  sakes  I  live;  for  their  sakes 
I  gather  money  by  my  labours ;  and  for  them  I  keep  it 
as  well  as  my  nature  will  allow  me.  Ah!  you  are  a  living 
324 


A  Woman's  champion 

example  of  the  generosity  of  Englishmen  towards  help- 
less women. 

Your  nephew,  Lord  Mahon,  is  an  author,  and  in  his 
book  sneered  at  mine,  went  out  of  his  way  to  say  that  it 
was  the  best  French  history  of  the  war ;  this  he  thought 
smart,  but  I  replied  I  had  always  thought  the  doing 
justice  to  [a]  vanquished  enemy  was  thoroughly  English 
until  my  Lord  Mahon  assured  me  it  was  wholly  French. 
Was  I  right  ?  I  tell  you  this  that  you  may  know  me ; 
I  am  not  changed  in  feeling  or  sentiment,  but  you  should 
know  what  I  have  said  or  done  that  might  offend  you, 
or  I  should  be  going  to  you  under  false  colours. 

Much  do  I  like  your  Beni  Omaya,  if  they  be  truly 
heroic;  but  beauty  and  courage  are  only  gifts,  not  virtues. 
Are  they  compassionate  ?  Are  they  just  ?  Are  they 
mild  or  cruel  to  their  vanquished  foes?  Are  they  gentle 
or  harsh  to  women  and  children  ?  Do  they  admit  women 
to  have  rights  ?  Do  they  govern  them  by  their  affections 
or  by  their  fears?  Do  they  make  chattels  of  their  per- 
sons, and  kill  them  in  their  tyrannical  jealousy?  If  they 
do  they  are  not  heroes  for  me.  Women  are  gentle,  and 
should  be  free  human  beings,  and  the  peculiar  guardians 
of  children,  the  most  helpless  and  the  most  beautiful  of 
God's  creation;  there  can  be  no  virtue,  no  generosity, 
where  they  are  oppressed.  I  know  nothing  so  degrading 
to  England,  as  the  treatment  of  women  and  children. 
There  is  a  factory  system  grown  up  in  England  since  you 
left  it,  the  most  horrible  that  the  imagination  can  conceive. 
Factories  they  are  called,  but  they  are  in  realities  hells, 
where  hundreds  of  children  are  killed  yearly  in  protracted 
torture,  and  that  cotton  lords  may  extract  gold  from  their 
bones,  and  marrow,  and  blood.  Patience!  patience!  There 
will  be  a  day  of  reckoning  for  all  things ;  it  approaches. 
325 


The  true  Tory 

Farewell,  dear  Lady  Hester.  God  knows  whether  I  shall 
ever  hear  from  you  or  write  to  you  again,  but  never 
believe  that  I  have  not  a  true  and  deep  feeling  for  you. 

W.  NAPIER 

April  loth.  —  I  have  delayed  sending  this  letter  for  a 
fortnight,  partly  to  obtain  a  surer  mode  of  conveyance ; 
in  which  I  have  succeeded  through  my  friend  Lord 
Fitzroy-Somerset,  a  true  Tory  of  your  school,  that  is  to 
say,  an  upright  honest  man,  and  a  thorough  gentleman, 
both  in  his  private  and  public  proceedings.  Principally, 
however,  I  have  waited  to  procure  some  information  for 
you  about  the  estates  and  persons  you  mentioned  in 
your  letter. 


325 


XVI 

FRIENDSHIP   AND   MORE 

Marjorie  Fleming  sends  her  mother  her  love  ^> 

MY  DEAR  LITTLE  MAMA,  — I  was  truly  happy 
to  hear  that  you  were  all  well.  We  are  sur- 
rounded with  measles  at  present  on  every  side,  for  the 
Herons  got  it,  and  Isabella  Heron  was  near  Death's 
Door,  and  one  night  her  father  lifted  her  out  of  bed, 
and  she  fell  down  as  they  thought  lifeless.  Mr.  Heron 
said,  "That  lassie's  deed  noo"  — "I'm  no  deed  yet." 
She  then  threw  up  a  big  worm  nine  inches  and  a  half 
long.  I  have  begun  dancing,  but  am  not  very  fond  of  it, 
for  the  boys  strikes  and  mocks  me.  —  I  have  been  another 
night  at  the  dancing ;  I  like  it  better.  I  will  write  to 
you  as  often  as  I  can;  but  I  am  afraid  not  every  week. 
I  long  for  you  with  the  longings  of  a  child  to  embrace 
you  —  to  fold  you  in  my  arms.  I  respect  you  with  all  the 
respect  due  to  a  mother.  You  don't  know  how  I  love 
you.  So  I  shall  remain,  your  loving  child, 

M.  FLEMING 
327 


Swift  and  Pope's  dear  Patty 
The  Dean  in  Dublin  ^x       ^x       ^^       ^>        ^y 

(To  Mrs.  Martha  Blount  in  town) 

DUBLIN,  February  29,  1727-28 

DEAR  PATTY,  — I  am  told  you  have  a  mind  to 
receive  a  letter  from  me,  which  is  a  very  undecent 
declaration  in  a  young  lady,  and  almost  a  confession  that 
you  have  a  mind  to  write  to  me ;  for  as  to  the  fancy  of 
looking  on  me  as  a  man  sans  consequence,  it  is  what 
I  will  never  understand.  I  am  told  likewise  you  grow 
every  day  younger,  and  more  a  fool,  which  is  directly 
contrary  to  me,  who  grow  wiser  and  older,  and  at  this 
rate  we  shall  never  agree.  I  long  to  see  you  a  London 
lady,  where  you  are  forced  to  wear  whole  clothes,  and 
visit  in  a  chair,  for  which  you  must  starve  next  summer 
at  Petersham,  with  a  mantua  out  at  the  sides ;  and  spunge 
once  a  week  at  our  house,  without  ever  inviting  us  in  a 
whole  season  to  a  cow-heel  at  home.  I  wish  you  would 
bring  Mr.  Pope  over  with  you  when  you  come ;  but  we 
will  leave  Mr.  Gay  to  his  beggars  and  his  operas  till  he 
is  able  to  pay  his  club.  How  will  you  pass  this  summer 
for  want  of  a  Squire  to  Ham-Common  and  Walpole's 
Lodge?  for  as  to  Richmond  Lodge  and  Marble  Hill, 
they  are  abandoned  as  much  as  Sir  Spencer  Compton : 
and  Mr.  Schabe's  coach,  that  used  to  give  you  so  many 
a  set-down,  is  wheeled  off  to  St.  James'.  You  must  be 
forced  to  get  a  horse,  and  gallop  with  Mrs.  Jansen  and 
Miss  Bedier,  your  greatest  happiness  is,  that  you  are  out 
of  the  chiding  of  Mrs.  Howard  and  the  Dean;  but  I 
suppose  Mr.  Pope  is  so  just  as  to  pay  our  arrears,  and 
that  you  edify  as  much  by  him  as  by  us,  unless  you  are 
so  happy  that  he  now  looks  upon  you  as  reprobate  and 
a  cast-away,  of  which  I  think  he  hath  given  me  some 

328 


"  The  six  lines  in  a  hook " 

hints.  However,  I  would  advise  you  to  pass  this  summet 
at  Kensington,  where  you  will  be  near  the  court,  and 
out  of  his  jurisdiction;  where  you  will  be  teased  with  no 
lectures  of  gravity  and  morality,  and  where  you  will 
have  no  other  trouble  than  to  get  into  the  mercers'  books, 
and  take  up  a  hundred  pounds  of  your  principal  for 
Quadrille.  Monstrous,  indeed,  that  a  fine  lady,  in  the 
prime  of  life  and  gaiety,  must  take  up  with  an  anti- 
quated Dean,  an  old  gentlewoman  of  four-score,  and  a 
sickly  poet.  I  will  stand  by  my  dear  Patty  against  the 
world,  if  Teresa  beats  you  for  your  good,  and  I  will  buy 
her  a  fine  whip  for  the  purpose.  Tell  me,  have  you  been 
confined  to  your  lodging  this  winter  for  want  of  chair- 
hire? 

Do  you  know  that  this  unlucky  Mr.  Delaney  came  last 
night  to  the  Deanery,  and  being  denied,  without  my 
knowledge,  is  gone  to.  England  this  morning,  and  so  I 
must  send  this  by  the  post.  I  bought  your  opera  to-day 
for  sixpence,  so  small  printed  that  it  will  spoil  my  eyes. 
I  ordered  you  to  send  me  your  edition,  but  now  you  may 
keep  it  till  you  get  an  opportunity. 

Patty,  I  will  tell  you  a  blunder.  I  am  writing  to  Mr. 
Gay,  and  had  almost  finished  the  letter,  but  by  mistake 
I  took  up  this  instead  of  it,  and  so  the  six  lines  in  a  hook 
are  all  to  him,  and  therefore  you  must  read  them  to  him 
for  I  will  not  be  at  the  trouble  to  write  them  over  again. 
My  greatest  concern  in  the  matter  is,  that  I  am  afraid  I 
continue  in  love  with  you,  which  is  bad  after  near  six 
months1  absence.  I  hope  you  have  done  with  your  rash 
and  other  little  disorders,  and  that  I  shall  see  you  a  fine, 
young,  healthy,  plump  lady,  and,  if  Mr.  Pope  chides  you, 
threaten  him  that  you  will  turn  heretic.  Adieu!  dear 
Patty,  and  believe  me  to  be  one  of  your  truest  friends 
and  humblest  servants ;  and  that,  since  I  can  never  live 
329 


Temptings  to  Dublin 

in  England,  my  greatest  happiness  would  be  to  have 
you  and  Mr.  Pope  condemned,  during  my  life,  to  live  in 
Ireland,  he  at  the  Deanery,  and  you,  for  reputation  sake, 
just  at  next  door,  and  I  will  give  you  eight  dinners 
a  week,  and  a  whole  half  dozen  of  pint  bottles  of  good 
French  wine  at  your  lodgings,  a  thing  you  could  never 
expect  to  arrive  at,  and  every  year  a  suit  of  fourteen- 
penny  stuff,  that  should  not  be  worn  out  at  the  right 
side ;  and  a  chair  costs  but  sixpence  a  job ;  and  you 
shall  have  Catholicity  as  much  as  you  please,  and 
the  Catholic  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  as  old  again  as  I, 
for  your  Confessor.  Adieu  again,  dear  Patty, 

JON.  SWIFT 


Edward  FitzGerald  replies  at  once      *o     ^^     ^> 

GELDESTONE  HALL,  September  9,  1834 

DEAR  ALLEN,  —  I  have  really  nothing  to  say,  and 
I  am  ashamed  to  be  sending  this  third  letter  all 
the  way  from  here  to  Pembrokeshire  for  no  earthly 
purpose :  but  I  have  just  received  yours :  and  you  will 
know  how  very  welcome  all  your  letters  are  to  me  when 
you  see  how  the  perusal  of  this  one  had  excited  me  to 
such  an  instant  reply.  It  has  indeed  been  a  long  time 
coming:  but  it  is  all  the  more  delicious.  Perhaps  you 
can't  imagine  how  wistfully  I  have  looked  for  it:  how, 
after  a  walk,  my  eyes  have  turned  to  the  table,  on 
coming  into  the  room,  to  see  it.  Sometimes  I  have  been 
tempted  to  be  angry  with  you :  but  then  I  thought  I 
was  sure  you  would  come  a  hundred  miles  to  serve  me, 
though  you  were  too  lazy  to  sit  down  to  a  letter.  I 
suppose  that  people  who  are  engaged  in  serious  ways 
of  life,  and  are  of  well  filled  minds,  don't  think  much 
330 


The  noble  Spectator 

about  the  interchange  of  letters  with  any  anxiety :  but 
I  am  an  idle  fellow,  of  a  very  ladylike  turn  of  sentiment : 
and  my  friendships  are  more  like  loves,  I  think.  Your 
letter  found  me  reading  the  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor" 
too:  I  had  been  laughing  aloud  to  myself:  think  what 
another  coat  of  happiness  came  over  my  former  good 
mood.  You  are  a  dear  good  fellow,  and  I  love  you  with 
all  my  heart  and  soul. 

The  truth  is  I  was  anxious  about  this  letter,  as  I 
really  did  not  know  whether  you  were  married  or  not  — 
or  ill  —  I  fancied  you  might  be  anything,  or  any- 
where. .  .  . 

As  to  reading  I  have  not  done  much.  I  am  going 
through  the  Spectator-,  which  people  think  nowadays  a 
poor  book :  but  I  honour  it  much. 

What  a  noble  kind  of  Journal  it  was  !  There  is  cer- 
tainly a  good  deal  of  what  may  be  called  "pill}''  but 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  wisdom,  I  believe,  only  it  is 
couched  so  simply  that  people  can't  believe  it  to  be  real 
absolute  wisdom. 

The  little  book  you  speak  of  I  will  order  and  buy. 
I  heard  from  Thackeray,  who  is  just  upon  the  point  of 
going  to  France ;  indeed,  he  may  be  there  by  this  time. 
I  shall  miss  him  much.  .  .  . 

Farewell  my  dearest  fellow. 

You  have  made  me  very  happy  to  hear  from  you :  and 
to  know  that  all  is  so  well  with  you. 

Believe  me  to  be  your  ever  affectionate  friend, 

E.  FITZGERALD 


331 


Annihilation  and  Peace 

Lord  Nelson  anticipates    to  Collingwood  the  battle 
of  Trafalgar      -^y        ^y        *o        ^>        *^>> 

October  9,  1805 

I  SEND  you  Captain  Blackwood's  letter:  and  as  I 
hope  Weazle  has  joined,  he  will  have  five  frigates 
and  a  brig.  They  surely  cannot  escape  us.  I  wish  we 
could  get  a  fine  day.  I  send  you  my  plan  of  attack,  as 
far  as  a  man  dare  venture  to  guess  at  the  very  uncertain 
position  the  enemy  may  be  found  in ;  but,  my  dear 
friend,  it  is  to  place  you  perfectly  at  ease  respecting 
my  intentions,  and  to  give  full  scope  to  your  judgment 
for  carrying  them  into  effect.  We  can,  my  dear  Coll, 
have  no  little  jealousies :  we  have  only  one  great  object 
in  view,  —  that  of  annihilating  our  enemies,  and  getting 
a  glorious  peace  for  our  country.  No  man  has  more 
confidence  in  another  than  I  have  in  you :  and  no  man 
will  render  your  services  more  justice  than  your  very 
old  friend  NELSON  AND  BRONTE 


Dr.  Johnson  makes  Miss  Susannah  Thrale  happy      <^x 

{About  July  5,  1783] 

DEAREST   MISS    SUSY,— When  you  favoured  me 
with   your    letter,   you   seemed    to   be  in   want    of 
materials  to  fill  it,  having  met  with  no  great  adventures 
either  of  peril  or  delight,  nor  done  nor  suffered  any  thing 
out  of  the  common  course  of  life. 

When  you  have  lived  longer,  and  considered  more, 
you  will  find  the  common  course  of  life  very  fertile  of 
observation  and  reflection.  Upon  the  common  course 
of  life  must  our  thoughts  and  our  conversation  be  gener- 
ally employed.  Our  general  course  of  life  must  denomi- 
332 


Ingredients  of  a  Letter 

nate  us  wise  or  foolish,  happy  or  miserable ;  if  it  is  well 
regulated,  we  pass  on  prosperously  and  smoothly ;  as  it 
is  neglected,  we  live  in  embarrassment,  perplexity,  and 
uneasiness. 

Your  time,  my  love,  passes,  I  suppose  in  devotion, 
reading,  work,  and  company.  Of  your  devotions,  in  which 
I  earnestly  advise  you  to  be  very  punctual,  you  may 
not  perhaps  think  it  proper  to  give  me  an  account ;  and 
of  work  unless  I  understood  it  better,  it  will  be  of  no 
great  use  to  say  much ;  but  books  and  company  will 
always  supply  you  with  materials  for  your  letters  to  me, 
as  I  shall  always  be  pleased  to  know  what  you  are  read- 
ing, and  with  what  you  are  pleased ;  and  shall  take  great 
delight  in  knowing  what  impression  new  modes  or  new 
characters  make  upon  you,  and  to  observe  with  what 
attention  you  distinguish  the  tempers,  dispositions,  and 
abilities  of  your  companions.  A  letter  may  be  always 
made  out  of  the  books  of  the  morning  or  talk  of  the 
evening :  and  any  letters  from  you,  my  dearest,  will  be 
welcome  to  your,  etc. 

Lord  Collingwood  writes  to  Lady  Collingwood  of  his 
weariness  of  the  sea  and  the  education  of  their 
children  «^y  x^  ^^  x^>  ^>  x:^> 

OCEAN,  June  16,  1806 

THIS  day,  my  love,  is  the  anniversary  of  our  marriage, 
and  I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  it.     If  ever 
we  have  peace,  I  hope  to  spend  my  latter  days  amid  my 
family,  which  is  the  only  sort  of  happiness  I  can  enjoy  — 
after  this  life  of  labour,  to  retire  to  peace  and  quietness 
is    all  I    look   for    in    the  world.      Should  we   decide   to 
change   the   place   of  our  dwelling,  our  route  would  of 
333 


The  Sailor  Home  from  the  Sea 

course  be  to  the  southward  of  Morpeth ;  but  then  I 
should  be  for  ever  regretting  those  beautiful  views,  which 
are  nowhere  to  be  exceeded ;  and  even  the  rattling  of 
that  old  waggon  that  used  to  pass  our  door  at  6  o'clock 
in  a  winter's  morning  had  its  charms.  The  fact  is,  when- 
ever I  think  how  I  am  to  be  happy  again,  my  thoughts 
carry  me  back  to  Morpeth,  where,  out  of  the  fuss  and 
parade  of  the  world,  surrounded  by  those  I  loved  most 
dearly,  and  who  loved  me,  I  enjoyed  as  much  happiness 
as  my  nature  is  capable  of.  Many  things  that  I  see  in  the 
world  give  me  a  distaste  for  the  finery  of  it.  The  great 
knaves  are  not  like  those  poor  unfortunates,  who,  driven 
perhaps  to  distress  from  accidents  which  they  could  not 
prevent,  or  at  least  not  educated  in  principles  of  honour 
and  honesty,  are  hanged  for  some  little  thievery ;  while  a 
knave  of  education  and  high  breeding,  who  brandishes 
his  honour  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  would  rob  a  state  to 
its  ruin.  For  the  first,  I  feel  pity  and  compassion ;  for 
the  latter,  abhorrence  and  contempt :  they  are  the  tenfold 
vicious. 

Have  you  read  —  but  what  am  I  more  interested  about, 
is  your  sister  with  you,  and  is  she  well  and  happy?  Tell 
her  —  God  bless  her  !  —  I  wish  I  were  with  you,  that  we 
might  have  a  good  laugh.  God  bless  me  !  I  have 
scarcely  laughed  these  three  years.  I  am  here,  with  a 
very  reduced  force,  having  been  obliged  to  make  detach- 
ments to  all  quarters.  This  leaves  me  weak,  while  the 
Spaniards  and  French  within  are  daily  gaining  strength. 
They  have  patched  and  pieced  until  they  have  now  a  very 
considerable  fleet.  Whether  they  will  venture  out  I  do 
not  know ;  if  they  come,  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  do  an 
excellent  deed,  and  then  I  will  bring  them  to  England 
myself. 

How  do  the  dear  girls  go  on  ?  I  would  have  them 
334 


Education  for  Girls 

taught  geometry,  which  is  of  all  sciences  in  the  world  the 
most  entertaining :  it  expands  the  mind  more  to  the  know- 
ledge of  all  things  in  nature,  and  better  teaching  to  distin- 
guish between  truths  and  such  things  as  have  the  appearance 
of  being  truths,  yet  are  not,  than  any  other. 

Their  education,  and  the  proper  cultivation  of  the 
sense  which  God  has  given  them,  are  the  objects  on 
which  my  happiness  most  depends.  To  inspire  them 
with  a  love  of  everything  that  is  honourable  and  virtuous, 
though  in  rags,  and  with  contempt  for  vanity  in  em- 
broidery, is  the  way  to  make  them  the  darlings  of  my 
heart.  They  should  not  only  read,  but  it  requires  a 
careful  selection  of  books ;  nor  should  they  ever  have 
access  to  two  at  the  same  time ;  but  when  a  subject  is 
begun,  it  should  be  finished  before  anything  else  is 
undertaken.  How  would  it  enlarge  their  minds,  if  they 
should  acquire  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  mathematics 
and  astronomy  to  give  them  an  idea  of  the  beauty 
and  wonders  of  the  creation  !  I  am  persuaded  that  the 
generality  of  people,  and  particularly  fine  ladies,  only 
adore  God  because  they  are  told  it  is  proper  and  the 
fashion  to  go  to  church ;  but  I  would  have  my  girls  gain 
such  knowledge  of  the  works  of  the  creation,  that  they 
may  have  a  fixed  idea  of  the  nature  of  that  Being  who 
could  be  the  Author  of  such  a  world.  Whenever  they 
have  that,  nothing  on  this  side  the  moon  will  give  them 
much  uneasiness  of  mind.  I  do  not  mean  that  they 
should  be  Stoics,  or  want  the  common  feelings  for  the 
sufferings  that  the  flesh  is  heir  to ;  but  they  would  then 
have  a  source  of  consolation  for  the  worst  that  could 
happen. 

Tell  me  how  do  the  trees  which  I  planted  thrive  ? 
Is  there  shade  under  the  oaks  for  a  comfortable  summer 
seat  ?  Do  the  poplars  grow  at  the  walk,  and  does  the 
335 


«  A  Lady  dear  " 

wall  of  the  terrace  stand  firm?  My  bankers  tell  me  that 
all  my  money  in  their  hands  is  exhausted  by  fees  on  the 
peerage,  and  that  I  am  in  their  debt,  which  is  a  new  epoch 
in  my  life,  for  it  is  the  first  time  I  was  ever  in  debt  since  I 
was  a  midshipman.  Here  I  get  nothing;  but  then  my  ex- 
penses are  nothing,  and  I  do  not  want  it,  particularly  now 
that  I  have  got  my  knives,  forks,  teapot,  and  other  things 
you  were  so  kind  as  to  send  me. 


Thackeray  drops  into  verse  to  Mrs.  Brookfield        -^ 

one  o'clock,  the  boy  from  Punch  is  sitting  in  the 
passage  here, 
It  used  to  be  the  hour  of  lunch  at  Portman  Street,  near 

Portman  Squeer. 
O !  stupid  little  printers'  boy,  I  cannot  write,  my  head  is 

queer, 
And  all  my  foolish  brains  employ  in  thinking  of  a  lady 

dear. 
It  was  but  yesterday,  and  on  my  honest  word  it  seems  a 

year  — 
As  yet  that  pleasure  was  not  gone,  as  yet  I  saw  that  lady 

dear  — 
She's  left  us  now,  my  boy,  and  all  this  town,  this  life  is 

blank  and  drear. 
Thou  printers'  devil  in  the  hall,  didst  ever  see  my  lady 

dear? 
You'd  understand,  you  little  knave,  I  think,  if  you  could 

only  see  her, 
Why  now  I  look  so  glum  and  grave  for  losing  of  this  lady 

dear. 
A  lonely  man  I  am  in  life,  my  business  is  to  joke  and 

jeer, 

336 


A  Swiss  Cantab 

A  lonely  man  without  a  wife,  God  took  from  me  a  lady 

dear. 
A  friend  I  had,  and  at  his  side,  —  the  story  dates  from 

seven  long  year  — 
One  day  I  found   a  blushing  bride,  a  tender  lady  kind 

and  dear  ! 
They  took  me  in,  they  pitied  me,  they  gave  me  kindly 

words  and  cheer, 
A  kinder  welcome  who  shall  see,  than  yours,  O  !  friend 

and  lady  dear? 

(The  rest  is  wanting) 


M.  de  Bonstetten  describes  Cambridge,  and  Mr.  Gray 
describes  M.  de  Bonstetten        ^^       ^>      .  ^> 

(To  the  Rev.  Norton  Nicholls) 

CAMBRIDGE,  January  6,  1770 

HENCE,  vain  deluding  joys,  is  our  motto  here, 
written  on  every  feature,  and  hourly  spoken  by 
every  solitary  chapel  bell;  so  that  decently  you  can't 
expect  no  other  but  a  very  grave  letter.  I  really  beg 
your  pardon  to  wrap  up  my  thoughts  in  so  smart  a  dress, 
as  in  a  quarto  sheet.  I  know  they  should  appear  in  a 
folio  leaf,  but  the  ideas  themselves  shall  look  so  solemn 
as  to  belie  their  dress.  Though  I  wear  not  yet  the  black 
gown,  and  am  only  an  inferior  priest  in  the  temple  of 
meditation,  yet  my  countenance  is  already  consecrated. 
I  never  walk  but  with  even  steps  and  musing  gait,  and 
looks  conversing  with  the  skies ;  and  unfold  my  wrinkles 
only  when  I  see  Mr.  Gray,  or  think  of  you.  Then,  not- 
withstanding all  your  learnings  and  knowledge,  I  feel 
in  such  occasions  that  I  have  a  heart,  which  you  know 
z  337 


Strenuous  Cambridge 

is  as  some  others,  a  quite  profane  thing  to  carry  under 
a  black  gown. 

I  am  in  a  hurry  from  morning  till  evening.  At  eight 
o'clock  I  am  roused  by  a  young  square  cap,  with  whom 
I  follow  Satan  through  chaos  and  night.  He  explained 
me  in  Greek  and  Latin,  the  sweet  reluctant  amorous 
delays  of  our  grandmother  Eve.  We  finish  our  travels 
in  a  copious  breakfast  of  muffins  and  tea.  Then  appear 
Shakespeare  and  old  Linneus  struggling  together  as  two 
ghosts  would  do  for  a  damned  soul.  Sometimes  the  one 
gets  the  better,  sometimes  the  other.  Mr.  Gray,  whose 
acquaintance  is  my  greatest  debt  to  you,  is  so  good  as 
to  show  me  Macbeth,  and  all  witches,  beldams,  ghosts 
and  spirits,  whose  language  I  never  could  have  under- 
stood without  his  interpretation.  I  am  now  endeavouring 
to  dress  all  those  people  in  a  French  dress,  which  is  a 
very  hard  labour. 

I  am  afraid  to  take  a  room,  which  Mr.  Gray  shall  keep 
much  better.  So  I  stop  my  ever  rambling  pen.  My 
respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Nicholls.  Only  remember 
that  you  have  nowhere  a  better  or  more  grateful  friend 
than  your  DE  BONSTETTEN 

I  loosed  Mr.  Wheeler's  letter  and  his  direction. 

I  never  saw  such  a  boy;  our  breed  is  not  made  on 
this  model.  He  is  busy  from  morning  to  night,  has  no 
other  amusement  than  that  of  changing  one  study  for 
another;  likes  nobody  that  he  sees  here,  and  yet  wishes 
to  stay  longer,  though  he  has  passed  a  whole  fortnight 
with  us  already.  His  letter  has  had  no  correction 
whatever,  and  is  prettier  by  half  than  English. 

Would  not  you  hazard  your  journal :  I  want  to 
see  what  you  have  done  this  summer,  though  it  would 
be  safer  and  better  to  bring  it  yourself,  methinks  ! 

338 


Corporal's  Devotion 

Complimens    respectueux  a  Mad.  Nichole,  et   a  notre 
aimable  Cpusine  la  Sposa.  T.  G. 


Corporal    William    Follows,    43rd   Regiment,  sends 
greeting  to  Colonel  William  Napier        ^*       x^> 

FERMOY,  August  26,  1820 

HONNORED  SIR, —  I  most  humbly  hope  your 
honnor  will  not  deem  it  too  presumtive  of  your 
servant  Wm.  Follows  in  addressing  a  few  lines  with  my 
sincerest  thanks  for  the  many  benefits  and  indulgences 
receved  from  your  honnor.  It  was  greatly  talked  of 
your  coming  to  join  the  Regiment  again,  but  I  am  very 
sorry  and  so  is  a  great  many  —  indeed  most  of  the 
Regiment  that  it  is  not  so.  I  hear  the  men  when  they 
would  see  the  mare,  wishing  that  your  honnor  was  back 
again,  but  she  is  gone  too,  so  that  there  is  nothing  to 
remind  them  of  you  now  but  your  honnor's  deeds  of 
justice  and  vaulor,  witch  will  always  be  thought  of  by 
them  that  noes  you.  I  hope  Sir  you  will  be  pleased  to 
give  my  duty  to  Mrs.  Napier  and  i  hope  you  will  excuse 
my  ignorant  presumtive  manner  of  writing,  in  witch  i 
am  very  indolent,  and  is  not  able  with  my  pen  to  express 
the  warm  sentiments  of  my  mind  towards  your 
benevealent  family  whom  everybody  respecks.  I  have 
been  corporal  better  than  two  years,  and  I  was  Lance- 
Sergeant  but  got  reduced  for  a  little  misconduct,  to 
Corporal  again,  but  I  am  verry  comfortable  with  my  wife 
and  child.  Your  honnor  will  undoubtedly  think  me  very 
troublesum  but  I  hope  you  will  impute  it  to  the  weak- 
ness of  your  ever  most  humble  and  duty  full  servant, 

WM.  FOLLOWS,  Corpl. 
43rd  Regt.  Lt.  Infantry 
339 


A  Letter  of  Sympathy 

An  Indian  pupil  sympathises  with  Sir  George  Grove 
after  an  accident     -^      ^^      ^>      ^y      ^y 

[1886] 

KIND  LAT  SAHIB  SALAMAT,  — I  was  so  very  sad 
when  our  darling  Miss  Sahiba  (Miss  Campbell) 
told  me  that  a  cab  had  run  over  you,  but  we  hope  that 
you  are  quite  well  now,  and  we  think  that  God  must  have 
sent  flying  down  His  shining  angels  to  guard  and  take  care 
of  you  from  getting  more  hurt !  We  often  think  of  your 
kind  words  to  us  and  of  your  smiles  the  first  day  we  saw 
you,  and  we  pray  that  God  may  let  us  see  your  kind  face 
again.  Now  I  must  say  Salam  noble  Lat  Sahib.  May 
God  put  a  garland  of  love  round  your  neck.  —  I  remain 
your  grateful  little  Indian  friend,  HAFIZAN 


Thomas  Gray  unlocks  his  heart  to  Richard  West  ^> 

WHEN  you  have  seen  one  of  my  days,  you  have 
seen  a  whole  year  of  my  life ;  they  go  round  and 
round  like  the  blind  horse  in  the  mill,  only  he  has  the 
satisfaction  of  fancying  he  makes  a  progress  and  gets 
some  ground ;  my  eyes  are  open  enough  to  see  the  same 
dull  prospect,  and  to  know  that  having  made  four-and- 
twenty  steps  more,  I  shall  be  just  where  I  was ;  I  may, 
better  than  most  people,  say  my  life  is  but  a  span,  were 
I  not  afraid  lest  you  should  not  believe  that  a  person  so 
short-lived  could  write  even  so  long  a  letter  as  this ;  in 
short,  I  believe  I  must  not  send  you  the  history  of  my 
own  time,  till  I  can  send  you  that  also  of  the  reformation. 
However,  as  the  most  undeserving  people  in  the  world 
must  sure  have  the  vanity  to  wish  somebody  had  a  regard 
for  them,  so  I  need  not  wonder  at  my  own,  in  being 
340 


Old  Friends 

pleased  that  you  care  about  me.  You  need  not  doubt, 
therefore,  of  having  a  first  row  in  the  front  box  of  my 
little  heart,  and  I  believe  you  are  not  in  danger  of  being 
crowded  there ;  it  is  asking  you  to  an  old  play,  indeed, 
but  you  will  be  candid  enough  to  excuse  the  whole  piece 
for  the  sake  of  a  few  tolerable  lines. 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  8,  1736 


Dean  Swift  is  anxious  for  Mr.  Pope's  health  ^^    ^^ 

February  7,  1735-6 

IT  is  some  time  since  I  dined  at  the  Bishop  of  Derry's, 
where  Mr.  Secretary  Gary  told  me  with  great  con- 
cern that  you  were  taken  very  ill.  I  have  heard  nothing 
since ;  only  I  have  continued  in  great  pain  of  mind ;  yet 
for  my  own  sake  and  the  world's  more  than  for  yours; 
because  I  well  know  how  little  you  value  life  both  as  a 
philosopher  and  a  Christian,  particularly  the  latter, 
wherein  hardly  one  in  a  million  of  us  heretics  can  equal 
you. 

If  you  are  well  recovered,  you  ought  to  be  reproached 
for  not  putting  me  especially  out  of  pain,  who  could  not 
bear  the  loss  of  you ;  although  we  must  be  for  ever 
distant  as  much  as  if  I  were  in  the  grave,  for  which  my 
years  and  continual  indisposition  are  preparing  me  every 
season.  I  have  staid  too  long  from  pressing  you  to  give 
me  some  ease  by  an  account  of  your  health.  Pray  do 
not  use  me  so  ill  any  more.  \  look  upon  you  as  an 
estate  from  which  I  receive  my  best  annual  rents, 
although  I  am  never  to  see  it.  Mr.  Tickell  was  at  the 
same  meeting  under  the  same  real  concern  ;  and  so  were 
a  hundred  others  of  this  town  who  had  never  seen  you. 
I  read  to  the  Bishop  of  Derry  the  passage  in  your  letter 
341 


The  Dean  deserted 

which  concerned  him,  and  his  Lordship  expressed  his 
thankfulness  in  a  manner  that  became  him.  He  is 
esteemed  here  as  a  person  of  learning,  and  conversa- 
tion, and  humanity,  but  he  is  beloved  by  all  people.  He 
is  a  most  excessive  Whig  but  without  any  appearing 
rancour,  and  his  idol  is  King  William ;  besides,  ^3,000  a 
year  is  an  invincible  sweetner! 

I  have  nobody  now  left  but  you.  Pray  be  so  kind  to  out- 
live me ;  and  then  die  as  soon  as  you  please ;  but  without 
pain ;  and  let  us  meet  in  a  better  place,  if  my  religion 
will  permit,  but  rather  my  virtue,  although  much  unequal 
to  yours.  Pray,  let  my  Lord  Bathurst  know  how  much  I 
love  him.  I  still  insist  on  his  remembering  me,  although 
he  is  too  much  in  the  world  to  honour  an  absent  friend  with 
his  letters.  My  state  of  health  is  not  to  boast  of;  my 
giddiness  is  more  or  less  too  constant ;  I  sleep  ill,  and 
have  a  poor  appetite.  I  can  as  easily  write  a  poem  in 
the  Chinese  language  as  my  own.  I  am  as  fit  for 
matrimony  as  invention ;  and  yet  I  have  daily  schemes 
for  innumerable  essays  in  prose,  and  proceed  sometimes 
to  no  less  than  half  a  dozen  lines,  which  the  next  morning 
become  waste  paper.  What  vexes  me  most  is,  that  my 
female  friends,  who  could  bear  me  very  well  a  dozen 
years  ago,  have  now  forsaken  me ;  although  I  am  not  so 
old  in  proportion  to  them  as  I  formerly  was :  which  I 
can  prove  by  arithmetic,  for  then  I  was  double  their  age, 
which  now  I  am  not. 

Pray,  put  me  out  of  fear  as  soon  as  you  can,  about  that 
ugly  report  of  your  illness ;  and  let  me  know  who  this 
Cheseldon  is,  that  hath  so  lately  sprung  up  in  your  favour. 

Give  me  also  some  account  of  your  neighbour  (Lord 
Bolingbroke),  who  wrote  to  me  from  Bath. 

I  hear  he  resolves  to  be  strenuous  for  the  taking  of 
the  test ;  which  grieves  me  extremely  from  all  the  un- 
342 


"Dear,  lovely  Mrs.  Scurlock" 

prejudiced  reasons  I  was  ever  able  to  form,  and  against 
the  maxims  of  all  wise  Christian  governments,  and  which 
always  had  some  established  religion,  leaving  at  best  a 
toleration  to  others.  Farewell,  my  dearest  friend :  ever 
and  upon  every  account  that  can  create  friendship  and 
esteem. 

Dick  Steele  in  chains      ^>      x^      x^>       *o      xv> 

I 

SMITH  STREET,  WESTMINSTER,  1707 

MADAM,  —  I  lay  down  last  night  with  your  image  in 
my  thoughts,  and  have  awak'd  this  morning  in 
the  same  contemplation.  The  pleasing  transport  with 
which  Pme  delighted,  has  a  sweetnesse  in  it  attended  with 
a  train  of  ten  thousand  soft  desires,  anxieties,  and  cares; 
the  day  arises  on  my  hopes  with  new  brightnesse ;  youth, 
beauty  and  innocence  are  the  charming  objects  that  steal 
me  from  myself,  and  give  me  joys  above  the  reach  of 
ambition,  pride  or  glory.  Beleive  me,  fair  one,  to  throw 
myself  at  your  feet  is  giving  my  self  the  highest  blisse  I 
know  on  Earth.  Oh  hasten  ye  minutes!  bring  on  the 
happy  morning  wherein  to  be  ever  her's  will  make  me 
look  down  on  thrones!  Dear  Molly,  I  am  tenderly, 
passionately,  faithfully  thine,  RICHARD  STEELE 

II 

Saturday  Night  \_Aug.  30,  1707] 

DEAR,  LOVELY  MRS.  SCURLOCK,  —  I   have  been 
in  very  good  company,   where  your    health,   under 
the  character  of  the  woman  I  lov'd  best,  has  been  often 
drunk,  so  that  I  may  say  I  am  dead  drunk  for  your  sake, 
which  is  more  than  I  die  for  you.  —  Yours,     R.  STEELE 
343 


"  Dear  little  Woman  " 

III 

ST.  JAMES'S  COFFEE-HOUSE 
Sept.  i,  1707 

MADAM,  —  It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  be 
in  love  and  yet  to  attend  to  businesse.  As  for  me, 
all  who  speake  to  me  find  me  out,  and  I  must  lock  myself 
up,  or  other  people  will  do  it  for  me.  A  gentleman  ask'd 
me  this  morning  what  news  from  Lisbon,  and  I  answer'd 
she's  exquisitely  handsome.  Another  desir'd  to  know 
when  I  had  been  last  at  Hampton  Court,  I  reply'd  'twill 
be  on  Tuesday  come  se'nnight.  Prithee  allow  me  at 
least  to  kisse  your  hand  before  that  day,  that  my  mind 
may  be  in  some  composure.  O  love ! 

A  thousand  torments  dwell  about  thee, 
Yet  who  would  live  to  live  without  thee  ? 

Methinks  I  could  write  a  volume  to  you,  but  all  the 
language  on  earth  would  fail  in  saying  how  much,  and 
with  what  disinterested  passion,  I  am  ever  yours, 

RICHD.  STEELE 

\Steele  and  his  Prue  were  married  on  September  9, 
1707.] 

IV 

March  n,  1708-9 

DEAR  PRUE,  —  I  enclose  five  guineas,  but  can't  come 
home  to  dinner.     Dear  little  woman,  take  care  of 
thyself,  and  eat  and  drink  cheerfully. 

RICHD.  STEELE 
V 

Dec.  23 

MY   DEAR,  — I  shall  not  come  home  to  dinner,  but 
have   fixed  everything;    and    received  money    for 
present  uses.     I  desire,  my  dear,  that  you  have  nothing 
344 


"  The  prettyest  Woman  " 

else  to  do  but  to  be  a  darling ;  the  way  to  which  is  to  be 
always  in  good  humour,  and  beleive  I  spend  none  of  my 
time  but  to  the  advantage  of  you.  —  Your  most  obedient 
husband,  RICHARD  STEELE 

VI 

Sept.  30,  1710 

DEAR  PRUE, —  I  am  very  sleepy  and  tired,  but  could 
not  think  of  closing  my  eyes  till  I  had  told  you  I 
am,  dearest  creature,  your  most  affectionate  and  faithful 
husband,  RICHARD  STEELE 

From  the  Press  one  in  the  morning. 

VII 

7^15,1712 

DEAR  PRUE,— I  thank  you  for  your  kind  billet. 
The  nurse  shall  have  money  this  week.  I  saw 
your  son  Dick,  but  he  is  a  peevish  chit.  You  cannot 
conceive  how  pleased  I  am  that  I  shall  have  the  prettyest 
house  to  receive  the  prettyest  woman  who  is  the  darling 
of  RICHARD  STEELE 

VIII 

HAMPTON  COURT 
Thursday*  Noon,  Sep.  17,  1712 

DEAREST  WIFE,  —  The  finest  woman  in  nature 
should  not  detain  me  an  hour  from  you,  but  you 
must  sometimes  suffer  the  rivalship  of  the  wisest  men. 
Lord  Halifax  and  Sommers  leave  this  place  after  dinner 
and  I  go  to  Watford  to  speak  with  the  Sollicitor  General!* 
and  from  thence  come  directly  to  Bloomsbury  Square.  — 
Yours  faithfully,  RICHARD  STEELE 

345 


D 


Complete  Surrender 
IX 

March  28,  1713 

IE AR  PRUE,  —  I  will  do  every  thing  you  desire  your 
own  way.  —  Yours  ever, 

RICHARD   STEELE 


M.  Destrosses,  a  French  prisoner,  tells  Miss  Seward 
the  news  of  his  release       *^>      *^      x^>      'Qy 

AH,  Madam,   I   am   too  happy  to  eat,  and  sleep  no 
more  me.     I  go  to  bed,  and  fall  asleep  one  hour ; 
dream  see   my  wife,  my  children  —  wake,  find  so   much 
better  than  dream  —  am  so  glad  cannot  drowsy.1 


John  Sterling  bids  his  friend  farewell  xc>      ^y      ^^ 

August  10,  1844 

MY  DEAR  CARLYLE,— For  the  first  time  for 
many  months  it  seems  possible  to  send  you  a  few 
words ;  merely,  however,  for  remembrance  and  farewell. 
On  higher  matters  there  is  nothing  to  say.  I  tread  the 
common  road  into  the  great  darkness,  without  any 
thought  of  fear  and  with  very  much  of  hope.  Certainty, 
indeed,  I  have  none.  With  regard  to  You  and  Me  I 
cannot  begin  to  write,  having  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep 
shut  the  lids  of  those  secrets  with  all  the  iron  weights 
that  are  in  my  power.  Towards  me  it  is  still  more  true 
than  towards  England,  that  no  man  has  been  and  done 

IThis  is  not  really  the  Frenchman's  letter,  but  an  extract  from 
one  of  Miss  Seward's  letters.  Lamb  copied  it  as  a  letter  into  one  of 
his  Commonplace  Books. 

346 


The  Hereafter 

like  you.  Heaven  bless  you !  If  I  can  lend  a  hand  when 
THERE,  that  will  not  be  wanting.  It  is  all  very  strange, 
but  not  one  hundredth  part  so  sad  as  it  seems  to  the 
standers-by. 

Your  wife  knows  my  mind  towards  her,  and  will  believe 
it  without  asseverations.  —  Yours  to  the  last, 

JOHN  STERLING 


347 


XVII 
THE   RURAL   RECLUSES 

Charles  Napier  longs  for  peace        xc^        x^y        ^y 

BERMUDAS,  1813 

MOTHER,  DEAREST  MOTHER,  — Would  to  God 
I  was  rid  of  this  vagabond  life  of  a  felon.     Peace ! 
peace !  when  shall  we  have  peace  ? 

April  2oth.  —  Now  for  your  Christmas  letter.  A  year's 
pay  to  have  seen  aunt  dance  —  the  idea  is  delightful. 
God  bless  her.  Oh !  my  wish  is  to  be  dancing  with  those 
I  love,  or  beating  them,  or  anything  so  as  to  be  living 
with  you,  and  to  pitch  my  sword  where  it  ought  to  be — 
with  the  devil  !  Henry  says,  if  it  were  so  the  wish 
would  come  to  have  it  back ;  but  my  craving  for  rest  is 
such  that  twenty  years  would  hardly  serve  to  satisfy  me, 
and  that  is  probably  ten  more  than  I  am  likely  to  live  — 
a  soldier  now-a-days  is  old  at  forty.  I  could  get  on  with 
a  duck,  a  chicken,  a  turkey,  a  horse,  a  pig,  a  cat,  a  cow 
and  a  wife,  in  a  very  contented  way;  why!  gardening 
has  become  so  interesting  to  me  here,  as  to  force  me  to 
give  it  up,  lest  neglect  of  business  should  follow :  it  is  a 
kind  of  madness,  with  me.  Gardening  from  morning  to 
348 


The  tired  Soldier 

night  should  be  my  occupation  if  there  was  any  one  to 
command  the  regiment,  it  won't  let  me  think  of  anything 
else.  So  hang  the  garden,  and  the  sweet  red  and  blue 
birds  that  swarm  around :  and  hang  dame  Nature  for 
making  me  love  such  things,  and  women's  company, 
more  than  the  sublime  pleasure  of  cutting  people's 
throats,  and  teaching  young  men  to  do  so. 

Henry  is  wrong.  I  would  not  be  tired  of  home.  My 
fondness  for  a  quiet  life  would  never  let  me  desire  to 
roam  in  search  of  adventures.  A  few  centuries  back  I 
should  have  been  a  hermit,  making  free  however  with 
the  rules  of  the  order,  by  taking  a  wife  instead  of  a  staff : 
one  cross-grained  thing  is  as  good  as  another.  It  is 
certain  that  a  civil  life  would  give  me  one  thing  which 
a  military  life  would  not  —  that  is  I  should  never,  my  own 
blessed  mother,  get  tired  of  the  power  of  living  with  you : 
that  would  make  up  for  all  the  affliction  and  regret  of  not 
murdering  my  neighbours ;  of  living  an  exile,  with  the 
interesting  anxiety  of  believing  those  I  love  suffer  even 
to  death,  while  imagination  amuses  itself  with  castles  for 
months  before  it  can  be  known  what  is  their  fate.  How 
shocking  to  give  up  such  delights  for  the  painfulness  of 
peace  and  quiet,  and  a  beloved  society.  Be  assured  it 
will  not  be  easy  to  persuade  me  of  that ;  and  quit  the 
army  with  joy  will  I,  when  the  power  to  do  so  is  mine: 
but  my  luck  will  not  go  so  far.  God  bless  you  all  not 
forgetting  little  Mongey  [a  tame  mongoose  brought 
from  the  East  by  his  brother  Henry]  that  is  if  he  has  a 
soul  to  be  saved,  but  I  see  him  bristling  his  tail  at 
St.  Peter. 

May.  —  What  a  cursed  life  is  a  soldier's,  no  object,  no 

end,   without    appui    for    head    or    heart,    unless    that 

unnatural  one  of  military  fame,  which  to  a  British  soldier 

is  so  trifling  that  it  is  not  worth  gaining.     A  captain  who 

349 


Lotus-eating  at  Beccles 

wins  the  government  of  a  country  by  his  victories  may 
sit  down  in  peace,  and  have  an  interesting  pursuit  for 
the  rest  of  his  life,  but  war,  eternal  war,  is  horrible. 


Edward  FitzGerald  with  Nero  and  a  Nightingale     ^> 

April 2%,  1839 

MY  DEAR  ALLEN,  —  Some  one  from  this  house  is 
going  to  London :  and  I  will  try  and  write  you 
some  lines  now  in  half  an  hour  before  dinner:  I  am 
going  out  for  the  evening  to  my  old  lady  who  teaches  me 
the  names  of  the  stars,  and  other  chaste  information. 
You  see,  Master  John  Allen,  that  if  I  do  not  come  to 
London  (and  I  have  no  thought  of  going  yet)  and  you 
will  not  write,  there  is  likely  to  be  an  end  of  our  com- 
munication: not  by  the  way  that  I  am  never  to  go  to 
London  again :  but  not  just  yet.  Here  I  live  with 
tolerable  content :  perhaps  with  as  much  as  most  people 
arrive  at,  and  what  if  one  were  properly  grateful  one 
would  perhaps  call  perfect  happiness.  Here  is  a 
glorious  sunshiny  day :  all  the  morning  I  read  about 
Nero  in  Tacitus  lying  at  full  length  on  a  bench  in  the 
garden;  a  nightingale  singing,  and  some  red  anemones 
eyeing  the  sun  manfully  not  far  off. 

A  funny  mixture  all  this :  Nero,  and  the  delicacy  of 
Spring :  all  very  human  however.  Then  at  half-past  one 
lunch  on  Cambridge  cream  cheese :  then  a  ride  over  hill 
and  dale :  then  spudding  up  some  weeds  from  the 
grass  :  and  then  coming  in,  I  sit  down  to  write  to  you,  my 
sister  winding  red  worsted  from  the  back  of  a  chair,  and 
the  most  delightful  little  girl  in  the  world  chattering 
incessantly.  So  runs  the  world  away.  You  think  I  live 
in  Epicurean  ease:  but  this  happens  to  be  a  jolly  day: 
350 


Mr.  Gray  at  his   Uncle's 

one  isn't  always  well,  or  tolerably  good,  the  weather  is 
not  always  clear,  nor  nightingales  singing,  nor  Tacitus 
full  of  pleasant  atrocity.  But  such  as  life  is,  I  believe  I 
have  got  hold  of  a  good  end  of  it.  ... 

Give  my  love  to  Thackeray  from  your  upper  window 
across  the  street. 

So  he  has  lost  a  little  child:  and  moreover  has  been 
sorry  to  do  so. 

Well,  good-bye,  my  dear  John  Allen  ;  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
My  kind  regards  to  your  lady. 

Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers, 

How  merrily  it  goes : 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years, 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

E.  F.  G. 

Geldestone  Hall,  Beccles 


Mr.  Gray  describes  his  rural  felicity    ^y      <^       *^ 

(To  Horace  Walpole) 

I  WAS  hindered  in  my  last,  and  so  could  not  give  you 
all  the  trouble  I  would  have  done.  The  description 
of  a  road,  which  your  coach  wheels  have  so  often 
honoured,  it  would  be  needless  to  give  you ;  suffice  it 
that  I  arrived  safe  at  my  uncle's,  who  is  a  great  hunter  in 
imagination ;  his  dogs  take  up  every  chair  in  the  house, 
so  I  am  forced  to  stand  at  this  present  writing;  and 
though  the  gout  forbids  him  galloping  after  them  in  the 
field,  yet  he  continues  still  to  regale  his  ears  and  nose 
with  their  comfortable  noise  and  stink.  He  holds  me 
mighty  cheap,  I  perceive,  for  walking  when  I  should 
ride,  and  reading  when  I  should  hunt.  My  comfort 
351 


The  Scholar's   Paradise 

amidst  all  this  is,  that  I  have  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile, 
through  a  lane  green,  a  forest  (the  vulgar  call  it  a 
common)  all  my  own,  at  least  as  good  as  so,  for  I  spy  no 
human  thing  in  it  but  myself.  It  is  a  little  chaos  of 
mountains  and  precipices ;  mountains,  it  is  true,  that  do 
not  ascend  much  above  the  clouds,  nor  are  the  declivities 
quite  so  amazing  as  Dover  cliff;  but  just  such  hills  as 
people  who  love  their  necks  as  well  as  I  do  may  venture 
to  climb,  and  crags  that  give  the  eye  as  much  pleasure  as 
if  they  were  more  dangerous.  Both  vale  and  hill  are 
covered  with  most  venerable  beeches,  and  other  very 
reverent  vegetables,  that,  like  most  other  ancient  people, 
are  always  dreaming  out  their  old  stories  to  the  winds, 

And  as  they  bow  their  hoary  tops  relate, 

In  murm'ring  sounds,  the  dark  decrees  of  fate; 

While  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 

Cling  to  each  leaf,  and  swarm  on  every  bough. 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  squats  ME  I  (il  penseroso), 
and  there  grow  to  the  trunk  for  a  whole  morning.  The 
timorous  hare  and  sporting  squirrel  gambol  around  me 
like  Adam  in  Paradise,  before  he  had  an  Eve ;  but  I 
think  he  did  not  use  to  read  Virgil,  as  I  commonly  do 
there.  In  this  situation  I  often  converse  with  my 
Horace,  aloud,  too,  that  is,  talk  to  you,  but  I  do  not 
remember  that  I  ever  heard  you  answer  me.  I  beg 
pardon  for  taking  all  the  conversation  to  myself,  but  it  is 
entirely  your  own  fault.  We  have^old  Mr.  Southern  at  a 
gentleman's  house  a  little  way  off,  who  often  comes  to  see 
us ;  he  is  now  seventy-seven  years  old,  and  has  almost 
wholly  lost  his  memory;  but  is  as  agreeable  as  an  old 
man  can  be,  at  least  I  persuade  myself  so  when  I  look 
at  him,  and  think  of  Isabella  and  Oroonoko.  I  shall  be  in 
town  in  about  three  weeks.  Adieu. 

September  1737 

352 


The  backward  Look 

William  Cowper  speculates  on  the  Picts        ^>      ^> 
(To  the  Rev.  John  Newton) 

November  30,  1783 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  I  have  neither  long  visits  to 
pay  nor  to  receive,  nor  ladies  to  spend  hours  in 
telling  me  that  which  might  be  told  in  five  minutes,  yet 
often  find  myself  obliged  to  be  an  economist  of  time,  and 
to  make  the  most  of  a  short  opportunity.  Let  our  station 
be  as  retired  as  it  may,  there  is  no  want  of  playthings 
and  avocations,  nor  much  need  to  seek  them,  in  this 
world  of  ours.  Business,  or  what  presents  itself  to  us 
under  that  imposing  character,  will  find  us  out,  even  in 
the  stillest  retreat,  and  plead  its  importance,  however 
trivial  in  reality,  as  a  just  demand  upon  our  attention. 
It  is  wonderful  how,  by  means  of  such  real  or  seeming 
necessities,  my  time  is  stolen  away.  I  have  just  time  to 
observe  that  time  is  short,  and  by  the  time  I  have  made 
the  observation,  time  is  gone.  I  have  wondered  in 
former  days  at  the  patience  of  the  antediluvian  world; 
that  they  could  endure  a  life  almost  millenary,  with  so 
little  variety  as  seems  to  have  fallen  to  their  share. 
It  is  probable  that  they  had  much  fewer  employments 
than  we.  Their  affairs  lay  in  a  narrower  compass ;  their 
libraries  were  indifferently  furnished ;  philosophical  re- 
searches were  carried-  on  with  much  less  industry  and 
acuteness  of  penetration,  and  fiddles,  perhaps,  were  not 
even  invented.  How  then  could  seven  or  eight  hundred 
years  of  life  be  supportable?  I  have  asked  this  question 
formerly,  and  been  at  a  loss  to  resolve  it ;  but  I  think  I 
can  answer  it  now.  I  will  suppose  myself  born  a 
thousand  years  before  Noah  was  born  or  thought  of. 
I  rise  with  the  sun ;  I  worship ;  I  prepare  my  breakfast ; 
2  A  353 


From  Olney  to  B.C. 

I  swallow  a  bucket  of  goat's  milk,  and  a  dozen  good 
sizeable  cakes.  I  fasten  a  new  string  to  my  bow,  and  my 
youngest  boy,  a  lad  of  about  thirty  years  of  age,  having 
played  with  my  arrows  till  he  has  stript  off  all  the 
feathers,  I  find  myself  obliged  to  repair  them.  The 
morning  is  thus  spent  in  preparing  for  the  chase, 
and  it  is  become  necessary  that  I  should  dine.  I  dig 
up  my  roots;  I  wash  them;  I  boil  them;  I  find  them 
not  done  enough ;  I  boil  them  again ;  my  wife  is  angry ; 
we  dispute ;  we  settle  the  point ;  but  in  the  meantime 
the  fire  goes  out,  and  must  be  kindled  again.  All  this  is 
very  amusing.  I  hunt ;  I  bring  home  the  prey ;  with  the 
skin  of  it  I  mend  an  old  coat,  or  I  make  a  new  one. 
By  this  time  the  day  is  far  spent ;  I  feel  myself  fatigued, 
and  retire  to  rest.  Thus  what  with  tilling  the  ground 
and  eating  the  fruit  of  it,  hunting  and  walking,  and 
running,  and  mending  old  clothes,  and  sleeping  and 
rising  again,  I  can  suppose  an  inhabitant  of  the  primaeval 
world  so  much  occupied,  as  to  sigh  over  the  shortness 
of  life,  and  to  find  at  the  end  of  many  centuries,  that 
they  had  all  slipt  through  his  fingers,  and  were  passed 
away  like  a  shadow. 

What  wonder  then  that  I,  who  live  in  a  day  of  so  much 
greater  refinement,  when  there  is  so  much  more  to  be 
wanted,  and  wished,  and  to  be  enjoyed,  should  feel 
myself  now  and  then  pinched  in  point  of  opportunity,  and 
at  some  loss  for  leisure  to  fill  four  sides  of  a  sheet  like 
this? 

Thus,  however,  it  is,  and  if  the  ancient  gentlemen  to 
whom  I  have  referred,  and  their  complaints  of  the  dispro- 
portion of  time  to  the  occasions  they  had  for  it,  will  not 
serve  me  as  an  excuse,  I  must  even  plead  guilty,  and 
confess  that  I  am  often  in  haste,  when  I  have  no  good 
reason  for  being  so.  ...  WM.  COWPER 

354 


Before  Miss  Jekyll 
Pliny  describes  his  villa  to  Appollinaris        /^         <^ 

MY  villa,  near  the  foot  of  the  hill,  is  so  happily  placed 
as  to  catch  the  prospect  which  is  seen  from  the 
top;  yet  the  acclivity  by  which  you  ascend  to  it,  is 
attained  by  so  gradual  and  imperceptible  an  ascent ; 
that  you  find  you  are  on  an  elevation,  without  having 
been  sensible  of  any  effort  in  arriving  at  it. 

Behind,  but  at  a  great  distance,  are  the  Apennine 
mountains.  In  the  serenest  and  calmest  day  we  receive 
the  winds  that  blow  from  this  quarter,  but  spent  and 
subdued  before  they  reach  us  by  passing  through  the 
space  interposed.  The  aspect  of  a  great  part  of  the 
building  is  full  south,  and  invites,  as  it  were,  the  afternoon 
sun  in  summer  (though  somewhat  earlier  in  the  winter) 
into  a  portico  of  well-proportioned  dimensions,  in  which 
there  are  many  divisions,  and  a  porch  or  entrance  hall 
after  the  manner  of  the  ancients.  Before  this  portico  is  a 
terrace  walk,  adorned  with  various  figures  having  a  box 
hedge,  and  an  easy  slope  with  the  figures  of  animals  in 
box  on  the  opposite  sides,  answering  alternately  to  each 
other.  In  the  level  land  below  is  the  soft,  I  had  almost 
said,  the  liquid  Acanthus. 

A  walk  goes  round  this  area  shut  in  with  tonsile  ever- 
greens, cut  into  various  forms.  This  leads  to  the  gestatio 
which  is  made  in  the  form  of  a  circus,  with  box  in  the 
middle  cut  into  various  shapes  with  a  plantation  of 
shrubs,  kept  by  the  shears  from  becoming  luxuriant. 
The  whole  is  fenced  in  by  a  wall,  covered  by  box  cut 
into  steps.  Beyond  this  lies  a  meadow  as  much  set  off 
by  nature,  as  what  I  have  been  describing  is  by  art, 
which  again  terminates  in  other  meadows  and  fields 
interspersed  with  coppices. 

The  portico  ends  in  a  dining  room,  which  opens  upon 
355 


For  cc  my  familiar  Friends  " 

the  piazza  with  folding  doors,  from  the  windows  of  which 
you  see  immediately  before  you  the  meadows,  and  beyond 
a  wide  expanse  of  country. 

Here  also  is  seen  the  terrace  and  the  projecting  part  of 
the  villa;  as  also  the  grove  and  woods  of  the  adjacent 
garden  walk,  which  has  the  name  of  hippodrome. 

Opposite  nearly  the  middle  of  the  portico,  and  rather 
to  the  back,  is  an  apartment  which  encloses  a  small  area 
shaded  by  four  plane  trees,  in  the  middle  of  which  a 
fountain  running  over  the  brim  of  a  marble  basin 
refreshes  with  its  gentle  sprinkling  the  surrounding  trees, 
and  the  verdure  which  they  overhang.  In  the  summer 
apartment  there  is  an  inner  sleeping  room,  which  shuts 
out  both  light  and  noise ;  and  adjoining  this  is  a  common 
dining  room,  for  the  reception  of  my  familiar  friends.  A 
second  portico  looks  upon  the  little  area,  and  has  the 
same  prospect  as  the  portico  I  have  just  described. 
There  is  besides  another  room,  which  being  close  to 
the  nearest  plane  trees  enjoys  a  constant  shade  and 
verdure.  Its  sides  are  composed  of  sculptured  marble 
up  to  the  balcony :  and  from  thence  to  the  ceiling  there 
is  a  painting  of  boughs  with  birds  sitting  on  them ;  not 
less  pleasing  than  the  marble  carving;  at  the  base  of 
which  is  a  little  fountain,  playing  through  several  pipes 
into  a  vase,  and  producing  a  most  agreeable  murmur. 
From  an  angle  of  the  portico  you  pass  into  a  very 
spacious  chamber  opposite  the  dining  room,  which  from 
some  of  its  windows  has  a  view  of  the  terrace,  and  from 
others  of  the  meadow ;  while  from  those  in  front  you 
look  upon  a  cascade  which  gratifies  at  once  both  the 
eye  and  the  ear;  for  the  water  falls  from  a  height 
foaming  in  the  marble  basin  below.  This  chamber  is 
very  warm  in  the  winter,  as  it  is  much  exposed  to  the 
sun.  And  if  the  day  is  cloudy  the  sm^s  place  is  supplied 

356 


"Pliny's  Baths" 

by  the  heat  of  an  adjoining  stove.  From  thence  through 
a  spacious  and  cheerful  undressing  room  you  pass  to  the 
cold  bathing  room,  in  which  is  a  large  and  dark  bath; 
but  if  you  are  disposed  to  swim  more  at  large,  or  in 
warmer  water,  there  is  in  the  same  area  a  large  bath  for 
that  purpose,  and  near  it  a  reservoir  which  will  give  you 
cold  water  if  you  wish  to  be  braced  again,  or  feeling 
yourself  too  relaxed  by  the  warm.  Near  the  cold  bath  is 
one  of  moderate  heat,  being  most  kindly  acted  upon  by  the 
sun,  but  not  so  much  affected  by  it  as  the  warm  bath,  which 
projects  further. 

This  apartment  for  bathing  has  three  divisions ;  —  two 
lie  open  to  the  full  sun,  the  third  is  so  disposed  as  to  have 
less  of  its  heat.  Over  the  undressing  room  is  built  the 
tennis  court,  which  admits  of  many  kinds  of  games  by 
means  of  its  different  circles.  Near  the  bath  is  the 
staircase  which  leads  to  the  enclosed  portico,  but  not 
till  the  three  apartments  have  been  passed ;  and  of  those 
one  looks  upon  that  little  area  in  which  are  the  four 
plane  trees,  another  upon  the  meadows,  and  the  third 
upon  several  vineyards ;  so  that  they  have  their  respective 
aspects  and  views.  At  one  end  of  the  enclosed  portico, 
and  taken  off  from  it,  is  a  chamber  that  looks  upon  the 
hippodrome,  the  vineyards,  and  the  mountains ;  and  next 
to  this  is  a  room  having  the  sun  full  upon  it,  especially  in 
the  winter.  To  this  succeeds  an  apartment  which  connects 
the  hippodrome  with  the  house. 

Such  is  the  face  and  frontage  of  our  villa.  On  the 
side  of  it  is  a  summer  enclosed  portico,  the  position  of 
which  is  high,  so  as  not  only  to  command  the  vineyards, 
but  to  seem  to  touch  them.  From  the  middle  of  this 
portico  you  enter  a  dining  room,  cooled  by  the  salubrious 
breezes  from  the  valleys  of  the  Apennines.  From  the 
very  large  windows  at  the  back  you  have  a  prospect  of 
357 


The  Summer  Portico 

the  vineyards,  as  you  have  also  from  the  folding  doors, 
as  if  you  were  looking  from  the  summer  portico,  along 
that  side  of  the  last  mentioned  dining  room,  where  there 
are  no  windows,  runs  a  staircase  affording  a  private 
access  for  serving  of  entertainments.  At  the  end  of  this 
room  is  a  sleeping  chamber;  underneath  this  apartment 
is  an  enclosed  portico ;  looking  like  a  grotto,  which  during 
the  summer,  having  a  coolness  of  its  own  from  being 
impervious  to  the  sun,  neither  admits  nor  needs  any 
breezes  from  without.  After  you  have  passed  both  these 
porticos,  and  where  the  dining  room  ends,  you  again 
enter  a  portico,  used  in  the  forenoon  during  winter,  and 
in  the  evening  during  summer;  it  leads  to  two  general 
apartments,  one  containing  four  sleeping  rooms,  the  other 
three,  which  in  their  turn  have  the  benefit  of  the  sun  or 
shade.  The  hippodrome  extends  its  length  before  this 
agreeably  disposed  range  of  building,  entirely  open  in 
the  middle,  so  that  the  eye  on  the  first  entrance  sees 
the  whole.  It  is  surrounded  by  plane  trees,  which  are 
clothed  with  ivy,  so  that  while  their  tops  flourish  in 
their  own,  their  bodies  are  decked  in  borrowed  verdure, 
the  ivy  thus  wanders  over  the  trunks  and  branches,  and 
by  passing  from  one  plane  tree  to  another  unites  the 
neighbours  together.  Between  these  plane  trees  box 
trees  are  interposed,  and  the  laurel  stationed  behind 
the  box,  adds  its  shade  to  that  of  the  planes.  This 
plantation  forming  the  straight  boundary  on  each  side 
of  the  hippodrome,  or  great  garden  walk,  ends  in  a  semi- 
circle, is  varied  in  form;  this  part  is  surrounded  and 
sheltered  with  cypress  trees  which  cast  round  a  dark  and 
solemn  shade ;  while  the  day  breaks  in  upon  the  interior 
circular  walks,  which  are  numerous. 

You   are   regaled    at   this   spot   with    the  fragrance  of 
roses,  while  you  find   the   coldness  of  the   shade  agree- 

358 


The  fantastic   Box 

ably  tempered  and  corrected  by  the  warmth  of  the  sun. 
Having  passed  through  these  winding  walks,  you  re- 
enter  the  walk  with  its  straight  enclosure,  but  not  to  this 
only,  for  many  ways  branch  out  from  it,  divided  by  box- 
hedges.  Here  you  have  a  little  meadow,  and  here  the 
box  is  cut  into  a  thousand  different  forms ;  sometimes  into 
letters,  expressing  the  name  of  the  owner,  sometimes  that 
of  the  artificer.  In  some  places  are  little  pillars,  inter- 
mingled alternately  with  fruit  trees ;  when  on  a  sudden 
while  you  are  gazing  on  these  objects  of  elegant  work- 
manship, your  view  is  opened  on  an  imitation  of  natural 
scenery,  in  the  middle  of  which  is  a  group  of  dwarf  plane 
trees. 

Beyond  these  there  commences  a  walk,  abounding  in 
the  smooth  and  flexible  acanthus,  and  trees  cut  into  a 
variety  of  figures  and  names ;  at  the  upper  end  of  which 
is  a  seat  of  white  marble,  overspread  with  vines,  which 
are  supported  by  four  small  Carystian  pillars.  From 
this  seat  the  water  issues  through  little  pipes,  as  if 
pressed  out  by  the  persons  sitting  upon  it ;  and  first 
falling  into  a  stone  reservoir,  is  received  by  a  polished 
marble  basin,  its  descent  being  secretly  so  managed 
as  always  to  keep  the  basin  full,  without  running 
over. 

Here  when  I  take  a  repast;  I  make  a  table  of  the 
margin  of  the  basin  for  the  heavier  and  more  substantial 
dishes,  the  lighter  being  made  to  swim  about  in  the  form 
of  little  ships  and  aquatic  birds.  Opposite  is  a  fountain 
which  is  incessantly  sending  forth  and  taking  back  its 
contents,  for  the  water  which  is  sent  up  to  a  height  falls 
back  upon  itself,  there  being  two  openings,  through  one 
of  which  it  is  thrown  out,  and  through  the  other  absorbed 
again. 

Opposite  the  seat  or  alcove  before  mentioned,  a  sum- 
359 


Pliny's  Summer-House 

mer-house  stands  which  reflects  as  much  beauty  upon 
the  alcove  as  it  borrows  from  it.  It  dazzles  with  its 
polished  marble,  and  with  its  projecting  doors  opens 
into  a  lawn  a  vivid  green.  From  its  upper  and  lower 
windows  the  eye  is  greeted  with  other  verdant  scenes. 
Connected  with  this  summer-house,  and  yet  distinct 
from  it,  is  a  little  apartment  furnished  with  a  couch  to 
repose  upon,  with  windows  all  round  it,  and  yet  suffi- 
ciently shaded  and  obscured  by  a  most  luxuriant  vine 
which  climbs  to  the  top  and  spreads  itself  over  the  whole 
building. 

You  repose  here,  just  as  if  you  were  in  a  grove,  only 
that  you  are  not,  as  in  a  grove,  liable  to  be  inconvenienced 
by  a  shower. 

In  this  place  also  a  fountain  rises,  but  in  same  moment 
disappears. 

In  many  places  there  are  seats  of  marble,  which  like  the 
summer-house  itself,  offer  a  great  relief  and  accommoda- 
tion to  such  as  are  fatigued  with  walking. 

Near  each  seat  is  a  little  fountain.  And  throughout 
the  whole  hippodrome,  rivulets  run  murmuring  along, 
conducted  by  pipes,  and  taking  whatever  turn  the  hand 
of  art  may  give  them;  and  by  these  the  different  green 
plots  are  severally  refreshed,  and  sometimes  the  whole 
together. 

I  should  have  avoided  this  particularity;  for  fear  of 
being  thought  too  minute,  if  I  had  not  set  out  with  the 
resolution  of  taking  you  into  every  corner  of  my  house  and 
gardens.  I  have  not  been  afraid  of  your  being  weary  of 
reading  the  description  of  a  place  which  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  think  it  wearisome  to  visit ;  especially  as  you 
can  lay  down  my  letter,  and  rest  as  often  as  you  think 
proper.  I  must  also  confess,  that  in  this  description  I 
have  been  indulging  the  attachment  I  feel  to  my  villa. 


"Alone  I  did  it" 

I  have  an  affection  for  a  place  which  was  either  begun 
or  completed,  but  principally  begun,  by  myself.  In  a 
word  (for  why  should  I  not  disclose  to  you  my  opinion, 
or,  if  you  will,  my  error),  I  consider  it  to  be  the  first 
duty  of  a  writer  to  keep  his  subject  in  view,  and  from 
time  to  time  to  ask  himself  what  he  has  professed  to 
write  upon.  And  he  may  be  sure,  that  if  he  keeps 
close  to  his  subject,  he  cannot  be  tedious ;  but  most 
tedious,  indeed,  will  he  be,  if  he  suffer  anything  to 
call  him  away,  or  draw  him  off  his  subject.  You 
see  how  many  verses  Homer  and  Virgil  have  bestowed 
respectively  upon  the  description  of  the  arms  of  Achilles 
and  y£neas ;  and  neither  of  these  poets  can  be  called 
prolix  on  this  subject,  because  he  does  no  more  than 
execute  his  professed  design.  You  see  how  Aratus 
searches  out  and  collects  the  smallest  stars ;  and  yet 
he  is  not  chargeable  with  being  circumstantial  to  excess. 
For  this  is  not  the  diffusiveness  of  the  writer,  but  of 
the  subject  itself.  In  the  same  manner  (to  compare 
small  things  with  great),  in  striving  to  lay  before  your 
eyes  my  entire  villa,  if  I  take  not  care  to  wander  or 
deviate  from  my  subject,  it  is  not  of  the  size  of  my 
letter  which  describes,  but  of  the  villa  which  is  described, 
that  you  are  to  complain.  But  I  will  return  to  the  point 
from  which  I  set  out  with  this  digression ;  lest  I  should 
fall  under  the  censure  of  my  own  rules.  You  have  before 
you  the  reason  why  I  prefer  my  Tuscan  villa  to  those 
which  I  possess  at  Tusculum,  Tiber,  and  Praeneste. 

For  in  addition  to  what  I  have  related  concerning  it,  I 
enjoy  here  a  deeper,  solider,  and  securer  leisure ;  no  calls 
of  public  business  ;  nothing  near  me  to  summon  me  from 
my  quiet.  All  is  calm  and  still  around  me ;  which 
character  of  the  place  operates  like  a  more  genial 
climate  or  clearer  atmosphere  in  rendering  the  situation 


With  Claire  at  the  Casino 

salubrious.  Here  I  am  at  the  top  of  my  strength  in 
body  and  mind  ;  the  one  I  keep  in  exercise  by  study ; 
the  other  by  hunting.  Nor  does  any  place  agree  better 
with  my  family.  Certainly,  hitherto,  (if  it  be  not  too 
like  boasting  to  talk  so,)  I  have  not  lost  one  of  all  those 
whom  I  brought  with  me  hither,  and  may  heaven  con- 
tinue that  happiness  to  me,  and  that  honour  to  my  Villa. 
Farewell  ! 


Shelley  bathes  at  Lucca        ^*        x^v       ^>        *^ 

BAGNI  DI  Luce A^  July  25,  1818 

MY    DEAR    PEACOCK,  — I  received   on    the   same 
day    your    letters    marked  five   and   six,    the  one 
directed  to  Pisa,  and  the  other  to   Livorno,  and   I  can 
assure  you  they  are  most  welcome  visitors. 

Our  life  here  is  as  unvaried  by  any  external  events  as  if 
we  were  at  Marlow,  where  a  sail  up  the  river  or  a  journey 
to  London  makes  an  epoch.  Since  I  last  wrote  to  you, 
I  have  ridden  over  to  Lucca,  once  with  Claire,  and  once 
alone ;  and  we  have  been  over  to  the  Casino,  where  I 
cannot  say  there  is  anything  remarkable,  the  women 
being  far  removed  from  anything  which  the  most  liberal 
annotator  could  interpret  into  beauty  or  grace,  and 
apparently  possessing  no  intellectual  excellencies  to 
compensate  the  deficiency.  I  assure  you  it  is  well  that 
it  is  so,  for  these  dances,  especially  the  waltz,  are  so 
exquisitely  beautiful  that  it  would  be  a  little  dangerous 
to  the  newly  unfrozen  senses  and  imaginations  of  us 
migrators  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Pole.  As  it 
is — except  in  the  dark  —  there  could  be  no  peril.  The 
atmosphere  here,  unlike  that  of  the  rest  of  Italy,  is 
diversified  with  clouds,  which  grow  in  the  middle  of  the 
^62 


Jupiter  and  Venus 

day,  and  sometimes  bring  thunder  and  lightning,  and 
hail  about  the  size  of  a  pigeon's  egg,  and  decrease 
towards  the  evening,  leaving  only  those  finely  woven 
webs  of  vapour  which  we  see  in  English  skies,  and  flocks 
of  fleecy  and  slowly-moving  clouds,  which  all  vanish 
before  sunset;  and  the  nights  are  for  ever  serene,  and 
we  see  a  star  in  the  east  at  sunset  —  I  think  it  is  Jupiter  — 
almost  as  fine  as  Venus  was  last  summer;  but  it  wants 
a  certain  silver  and  aerial  radiance,  and  soft  yet  piercing 
splendour,  which  belongs,  I  suppose,  to  the  latter  planet 
by  virtue  of  its  at  once  divine  and  female  nature.  I  have 
forgotten  to  ask  the  ladies  if  Jupiter  produces  on  them 
the  same  effect.  I  take  great  delight  in  watching  the 
changes  of  the  atmosphere.  In  the  evening  Mary  and 
I  often  take  a  ride,  for  horses  are  cheap  in  this  country. 
In  the  middle  of  the  day,  I  bathe  in  a  pool  or  fountain, 
formed  in  the  middle  of  the  forests  by  a  torrent.  It  is 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  precipitous  rocks,  and  the 
waterfall  of  the  stream  which  forms  it*  falls  into  it  on  one 
side  with  perpetual  dashing.  Close  to  it,  on  the  top  of 
the  rocks,  are  alders,  and,  above,  the  great  chestnut  trees, 
whose  long  and  pointed  leaves  pierce  the  deep  blue  sky 
in  strong  relief.  The  water  of  this  pool,  which,  to  venture 
an  unrhythmical  paraphrase,  is  "  sixteen  feet  long  and  ten 
feet  wide,1'  is  as  transparent  as  the  air,  so  that  the  stones 
and  sand  at  the  bottom  seem,  as  it  were,  trembling  in 
the  light  of  noonday.  It  is  exceedingly  cold  also.  My 
custom  is  to  undress  and  sit  on  the  rocks,  reading 
Herodotus,  until  the  perspiration  has  subsided,  and  then 
to  leap  from  the  edge  of  the  rock  into  this  fountain  —  a 
practice  in  the  hot  weather  exceedingly  refreshing.  This 
torrent  is  composed,  as  it  were,  of  a  succession  of  pools 
and  waterfalls,  up  which  I  sometimes  amuse  myself  by 
climbing  when  I  bathe,  and  receiving  the  spray  all  over 
363 


True  to  Windsor  and  Marlow 

my  body,    whilst    I   clamber   up    the   moist   crags    with 
difficulty.  .  .  . 

What  pleasure  would  it  have  given  me  if  the  wings  of 
imagination  could  have  divided  the  space  which  divides 
us,  and  I  could  have  been  of  your  party  !  I  have  seen 
nothing  so  beautiful  as  Virginia  Water  in  its  kind,  and 
my  thoughts  for  ever  cling  to  Windsor  Forest,  and  the 
copses  of  Marlow,  like  the  clouds  which  hang  upon  the 
woods  of  the  mountains,  low  trailing,  and  though  they 
pass  away,  leave  their  best  dew  when  they  themselves 
have  faded. 


Mr.  Shenstone  gives    Mr.   Jago    an    account  of  his 
country  contentments        ^>       ^>       ^^y       ^^ 

THE  LEASOWES,  March  23,  1747-48 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  have  sent  Tom  over  for  the  papers 
which  I  left  under  your  inspection ;  having 
nothing  to  add  upon  this  head,  but  that  the  more  freely 
and  particularly  you  give  me  your  opinion,  the  greater 
will  be  the  obligation  which  I  shall  have  to  acknowledge. 
I  shall  be  very  glad  if  I  happen  to  receive  a  good  large 
bundle  of  your  own  compositions ;  in  regard  to  which,  I 
will  observe  any  commands  which  you  shall  please  to 
lay  upon  me. 

I  am  favoured  with  a  certain  correspondence,  by  way 
of  letter,  which  I  told  you  I  should  be  glad  to  cultivate ; 
and  I  find  it  very  entertaining.  Pray  did  you  receive  my 
answer  to  your  last  letter,  sent  by  way  of  London  ? 

I  should  be  extremely  sorry  to  be  debarred  the  pleasure 

of  writing  to  you  by  the  post,  as  often  as  I  feel  a  violent 

propensity  to  describe  the  notable  incidents  of  my  life ; 

which  amount  to  about  as   much  as  the   tinsel   of  your 

364 


At  The  Leasowes 

little  boy's  hobby-horse.  I  am  on  the  point  of  purchasing 
a  couple  of  busts  for  the  niches  of  my  hall ;  and  believe 
me,  my  good  friend,  I  never  proceed  one  step  in  ornament- 
ing my  little  farm,  but  I  enjoy  the  hopes  of  rendering  it 
more  agreeable  to  you,  and  the  small  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance which  sometimes  favour  me  with  their  company. 
I  shall  be  extremely  glad  to  see  you  and  Mr.  Fancourt 
when  the  trees  are  green ;  that  is,  in  May ;  but  I  would 
not  have  you  content  yourself  with  a  single  visit  this 
summer. 

If  Mr.  Hardy  (to  whom  you  will  make  my  compliments) 
inclines  to  favour  me  so  far,  you  must  calculate  so  as  to 
wait  on  him  whenever  he  finds  it  convenient;  though  I 
have  better  hopes  of  making  his  reception  here  agreeable 
to  him  when  my  lord  Dudley  comes  down.  I  wonder 
how  he  would  like  the  scheme  I  am  upon,  of  exchanging 
a  large  tankard  for  a  silver  standish.  I  have  had  a  couple 
of  paintings  given  me  since  you  were  here.  One  of  them 
is  a  Madonna,  valued,  as  it  is  said,  at  ten  guineas  in 
Italy,  but  which  you  would  hardly  purchase  at  the  price 
of  five  shillings.  However,  I  am  endeavouring  to  make 
it  out  to  be  one  of  Carlo  MarattPs,  who  was  a  first  hand, 
and  famous  for  Madonnas ;  even  so  as  to  be  nick- named 
Cartuccio  delle  Madonne,  by  Salvator  Rosa.  Two  letters 
of  the  cypher  (CM)  agree ;  what  shall  I  do  with  regard 
to  the  third?  It  is  a  small  piece,  and  sadly  blackened. 
It  is  about  the  size  (though  not  quite  the  shape)  of  the 
Bacchus  over  the  parlour  door,  and  has  much  such  a 
frame. 

A  person  may  amuse  himself  almost  as  cheaply  as  he 
pleases.  I  find  no  small  delight  in  rearing  all  sorts  of 
poultry ;  geese,  turkeys,  pullets,  ducks,  etc. 

I  am  also  somewhat  smitten  with  a  blackbird  which  I 
have  purchased :  a  very  fine  one ;  brother  by  father,  but 

365 


Shenstone's   Blackbird 

not  by  mother,  to  the  unfortunate  bird  you  so  beautifully 
describe,  a  copy  of  which  description  you  must  not  fail  to 
send  me ;  —  but  as  I  said  before,  one  may  easily  habituate 
one's  self  to  cheap  amusements ;  that  is,  rural  ones  (for 
all  town  amusements  are  horridly  expensive) ;  —  I  would 
have  you  cultivate  your  garden ;  plant  flowers ;  have  a 
bird  or  two  in  the  hall  (they  will  at  least  amuse  your 
children)  ;  write  now  and  then  a  song ;  buy  now  and 
then  a  book;  write  now  and  then  a  letter  to  your  most 
sincere  friend,  and  affectionate  servant. 

P.S.  —  I  hope  you  have  exhausted  all  your  spirit  of 
criticism  upon  my  verses,  that  you  may  have  none  left 
to  cavil  at  this  letter ;  for  I  am  ashamed  to  think,  that 
you,  in  particular,  should  receive  the  dullest  I  ever  wrote 
in  my  life. 

Make  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Jago.  She  can  go  a 
little  abroad,  you  say.  —  Tell  her,  I  should  be  proud  to 
show  her  the  Leasowes.  Adieu ! 


Pliny  returns  to  Nature        ^^        ^y        ^>x 
(To  Cornelius  Tacitus) 

YOU  will  certainly  laugh  (and  laugh  you  may) 
when  I  tell  you,  that  your  old  acquaintance  is 
turned  sportsman,  and  has  taken  three  noble  boars. 
What!  (you  will  say,  with  astonishment)  Pliny!  —  Even 
he.  However,  I  indulge,  at  the  same  time,  my  beloved 
inactivity ;  and  whilst  I  sat  at  my  nets,  you  would  have 
found  me,  not  with  my  spear,  but  my  pencil  and  tablet 
by  my  side.  I  mused  and  wrote,  being  resolved,  if  I 
returned  with  my  hands  empty,  at  least  to  come  home 
with  my  memorandums  full.  Believe  me,  this  manner 


The  literary  Huntsman 

of  studying  is  not  to  be  despised :  you  cannot  conceive 
how  greatly  exercise  contributes  to  enliven  the  imagina- 
tion. There  is,  besides,  something  in  the  solemnity  of 
the  venerable  woods  with  which  one  is  surrounded, 
together  with  that  profound  silence  which  is  observed 
on  these  occasions,  that  strongly  inclines  the  mind  to 
meditation.  For  the  future,  therefore,  let  me  advise 
you,  whenever  you  hunt,  to  take  your  pencil  and  tablets 
with  you,  as  well  as  your  basket  and  bottle ;  for  be 
assured  you  will  find  Minerva  as  fond  of  traversing  the 
hills  as  Diana.  Farewel. 


William  Cowper  in  at  the  death  -^        *o 

(To  Lady  Hesketh) 

THE  LODGE,  March  3,  1788 

ONE  day,  last  week,  Mrs.  Unwin  and  I,  having 
taken  our  morning  walk  and  returning  homeward 
through  the  wilderness,  met  the  Throckmortons. 

A  minute  after  we  had  met  them,  we  heard  the  cry 
of  hounds  at  no  great  distance,  and  mounting  the  broad 
stump  of  an  elm  which  had  been  felled,  and  by  the  aid  of 
which  we  were  enabled  to  look  over  the  wall,  we  saw 
them. 

They  were  all  at  that  time  in  our  orchard ;  presently 
we  heard  a  terrier,  belonging  to  Mrs.  Throckmorton, 
which  you  may  remember  by  the  name  of  Fury,  yelping 
with  much  vehemence,  and  saw  her  running  through 
the  thickets  within  a  few  yards  of  us  at  her  utmost  speed, 
as  if  in  pursuit  of  something  which  we  doubted  not  was 
the  fox.  Before  we  could  reach  the  other  end  of  the 
wilderness,  the  hounds  entered  also ;  and  when  we 

367 


The  sagacious  Huntsman 

arrived  at  the  gate  which  opens  into  the  grove,  there  we 
found  the  whole  weary  cavalcade  assembled. 

The  huntsman  dismounting,  begged  leave  to  follow 
his  hounds  on  foot,  for  he  was  sure,  he  said,  that  they 
had  killed  him :  a  conclusion  which  I  suppose  he  drew 
from  their  profound  silence. 

He  was  accordingly  admitted,  and  with  a  sagacity  that 
would  not  have  dishonoured  the  best  hound  in  the  world, 
pursuing  precisely  the  same  track  which  the  fox  and 
dogs  had  taken,  though  he  had  never  had  a  glimpse 
of  either  after  their  first  entrance  through  the  rails, 
arrived  where  he  found  the  slaughtered  prey.  He  soon 
produced  dead  reynard,  and  rejoined  us  in  the  grove 
with  all  his  dogs  about  him. 

Having  an  opportunity  to  see  a  ceremony,  which  I 
was  pretty  sure  would  never  fall  in  my  way  again,  I 
determined  to  stay  and  to  notice  all  that  passed  with  the 
most  minute  attention. 

The  huntsman  having  by  the  aid  of  a  pitchfork  lodged 
reynard  on  the  arm  of  an  elm,  at  the  height  of  about 
nine  feet  from  the  ground,  there  left  him  for  a  consider- 
able time.  The  gentlemen  sat  on  their  horses  contem- 
plating the  fox,  for  which  they  had  toiled  so  hard ;  and 
the  hounds  assembled  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  with  faces 
not  less  expressive  of  the  most  rational  delight,  contem- 
plated the  same  object.  The  huntsman  remounted;  cut 
off  a  foot,  and  threw  it  to  the  hounds ;  —  one  of  them 
swallowed  it  whole  like  a  bolus.  He  then  once  more 
alighted,  and  drawing  down  the  fox  by  the  hinder  legs, 
desired  the  people,  who  were  by  this  time  rather 
numerous,  to  open  a  lane  for  him  to  the  right  and  left. 
He  was  instantly  obeyed,  when  throwing  the  fox  to  the 
distance  of  some  yards,  and  screaming  like  a  fiend,  "  tear 
him  to  pieces"  —  at  least  six  times  repeatedly,  he  con- 
368 


Cowper  rivals  Nimrod 

signed  him  over  absolutely  to  the  pack,  who  in  a  few 
minutes  devoured  him  completely.  Thus,  my  dear,  as 
Virgil  says,  what  none  of  the  gods  could  have  ventured 
to  promise  me,  time  itself,  pursuing  its  accustomed 
course,  has  of  its  own  accord  presented  me  with. 

I  have  been  in  at  the  death  of  a  fox,  and  you  now  know 
as  much  of  the  matter  as  I,  who  am  as  well  informed 
as  any  sportsman  in  England.  —  Yours,  W.  C. 


2B  369 


XVIII 
SHADOWS 

Sir  Walter  Scott  accepts  the  blow      ^^      ^>        ^* 

EDINBURGH,  January  20,  1826 

MY  DEAR  LOCKHART,  —  I  have  your  kind  letter. 
Whenever  I  heard  that  Constable  had  made  a 
cessio  fori,  I  thought  it  became  me  to  make  public  how 
far  I  was  concerned  in  these  matters,  and  to  offer  my 
fortune  so  far  as  it  was  prestable,  and  the  completion 
of  my  literary  engagements  (the  better  thing  almost  of 
the  two)  ;  to  make  good  all  claims  upon  Ballantyne  & 
Co.  ;  and  even  supposing  that  neither  Hurst  &  Co.  nor 
Constable  &  Co.  ever  pay  a  penny  they  owe  me,  my  old 
age  will  be  far  from  destitute  —  even  if  my  right  hand 
should  lose  its  cunning.  This  is  the  very  worst  that 
can  befall  me;  but  I  have  little  doubt  that,  with 
ordinary  management,  the  affairs  of  those  houses  will 
turn  out  favourably.  It  is  needless  to  add  that  I  will 
not  engage  myself,  as  Constable  desires,  for  ,£20,000 
more  —  or  ^2000  —  or  £200.  I  have  advanced  enough 
already  to  pay  other  people's  debts,  and  now  must  pay 
my  own. 

370 


Excuses  for  Constable 

If  our  friend  C.  had  set  out  a  fortnight  earlier 
nothing  of  all  this  would  have  happened;  but  he  let 
the  hour  of  distress  precede  the  hour  of  provision,  and 
he  and  others  must  pay  for  it.  Yet  don't  hint  this  to 
him,  poor  fellow;  it  is  an  infirmity  of  nature. 

I  have  made  my  matters  public,  and  have  had  splendid 
offers  of  assistance,  all  which  I  have  declined,  for  I 
would  rather  bear  my  own  burden  than  subject  myself 
to  obligation.  There  is  but  one  way  in  such  cases. 

It  is  easy,  no  doubt,  for  my  friend  to  blame  me  for 
entering  into  connection  with  commercial  matters  at  all. 
But  I  wish  to  know  what  I  could  have  done  better, 
excluded  from  the  Bar,  and  then  from  all  profits  for 
six  years,  by  my  colleague's  prolonged  life.  Literature 
was  not  in  those  days  what  poor  Constable  has  made 
it ;  and,  with  my  little  capital,  I  was  too  glad  to  make 
commercially  the  means  of  supporting  my  family.  I  got 
but  ^600  for  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  and  —  it  was 
a  price  that  made  men's  hair  stand  on  end  —  ^1000  for 
Marndon.  I  have  been  far  from  suffering  by  James 
Ballantyne.  I  owe  it  to  him  to  say,  that  his  difficulties, 
as  well  as  his  advantages,  are  owing  to  me.  I  trusted 
too  much  Constable's  assurances  of  his  own  and  his 
correspondents'  stability,  but  yet  I  believe  he  was  only 
sanguine.  The  upshot  is  just  what  Hurst  &  Co.  and 
Constable  may  be  able  to  pay  me;  if  155.  in  the  pound; 
I  shall  not  complain  of  my  loss,  for  I  have  gained 
many  thousands  in  my  day.  But  while  I  live  I  shall 
regret  the  downfall  of  Constable's  house,  for  never 
did  there  exist  so  intelligent  and  so  liberal  an 
establishment. 

They  went  too  far  when  money  was  plenty,  that  is 
certain ;  yet  if  every  author  in  Britain  had  taxed  himself 
half  a  year's  income,  he  should  have  kept  up  the  house 
371 


Taking  up  the  Burden 

which  first  broke  in  upon  the  monoply  of  the  London 
trade,  and  made  letters  what  they  now  are. 

I  have  had  visits  from  all  the  monied  people,  offering 
their  purses  —  and  those  who  are  creditors,  sending 
their  managers  and  treasurers  to  assure  me  of  their  join- 
ing in  and  adopting  any  measures  I  may  propose.  I  am 
glad  of  this  for  their  sake  and  for  my  own ;  for  although 
I  shall  not  desire  to  steer,  yet  I  am  the  only  person 
that  can  conn,  as  Lieutenant  Hatchway  says,  to  any 
good  purpose. 

A  very  odd  anonymous  offer  I  had  of  .£30,000,  which 
I  rejected,  as  I  did  every  other.  Unless  I  die,  I  shall 
beat  up  against  this  foul  weather.  A  penny  I  will  not 
borrow  from  anyone.  Since  my  creditors  are  content 
to  be  patient,  I  have  the  means  of  righting  them  per- 
fectly, and  the  confidence  to  employ  them.  I  should 
have  given  a  good  deal  to  have  avoided  the  coup  cT  eclat ; 
but  that  having  taken  place,  I  would  not  give  sixpence 
for  any  other  results.  I  fear  you  will  think  I  am  writing 
in  the  heat  of  excited  resistance  to  bad  fortune.  My 
dear  Lockhart,  I  am  as  calm  and  temperate  as  ever  you 
saw  me,  and  working  at  Woodstock  like  a  very  tiger.  I 
am  grieved  for  Lady  Scott  and  Anne,  who  cannot  con- 
ceive adversity  can  have  the  better  of  them,  even  for  a 
moment.  If  it  teaches  a  little  of  the  frugality  which 
I  never  had  the  heart  to  enforce  when  money  was 
plenty,  and  it  seemed  cruel  to  interrupt  the  enjoyment 
of  it  in  the  way  they  liked  best,  it  will  be  well. 

Kindest  love  to  Sophia,  and  tell  her  to  study  the 
song  and  keep  her  spirits  up.  Tyne  heart,  tyne  all; 
and  it  is  making  more  of  money  than  it  is  worth  to 
grieve  about  it.  Kiss  Johnnie  for  me.  How  glad  I 
am  fortune  carried  you  to  London  before  these  reverses 
happened,  as  they  would  have  embittered  parting,  and 
372 


Collingwood's  Sword 

made  it   resemble  the  boat   leaving  the  sinking  ship.  — 
Yours,  dear  Lockhart,  affectionately, 

WALTER  SCOTT 


Lord  Collingwood  thanks  the  Duke  of  Clarence  for 
ennobling  him  and  tells  him  of  Nelson's  death  x^ 

"  QUEEN,"  OFF  CARTHAGENA 
December  12,  1805 

I  CANNOT  express  how  great  my  gratitude  is  to  your 
Royal  Highness,  for  the  high  honour  which  you 
have  done  me  by  your  letter,  congratulating  me  on  the 
success  of  His  Majesty's  fleet  against  his  enemies. 

This  instance  of  condescension,  and  mark  of  your 
Royal  Highnesses  kindness  to  one  of  the  most  humble, 
but  one  of  the  most  faithful  of  His  Majesty's  servants 
is  deeply  engraved  in  my  heart.  I  shall  ever  consider 
it  as  a  great  happiness  to  have  merited  your  Royal 
Highness's  approbation,  of  which  the  sword  which  you 
have  presented  to  me  is  a  testimony  so  highly  honourable 
to  me ;  for  which  I  beg  your  Royal  Highness  will  accept 
my  best  thanks,  and  the  assurance  that,  whenever  His 
Majesty's  service  demands  it,  I  will  endeavour  to  use  it 
in  support  of  our  country's  honour,  and  to  the  advance- 
ment of  His  Majesty's  glory. 

The  loss  which  your  Royal  Highness  and  myself  have 
sustained  in  the  death  of  Lord  Nelson  can  only  be 
estimated  by  those  who  had  the  happiness  of  sharing 
his  friendship. 

He  had  all  the  qualities  that   adorn  the  human  heart, 

and  a  head   which,  by   its   quickness   of  perception   and 

depth  of  penetration,  qualified  him  for  the  highest  offices 

of  his  profession.     But  why  am  I  making  these  observa- 

373 


Nelson's  last  Moments 

tions  to  your  Royal  Highness,  who  knew  him?  Because 
I  cannot  speak  of  him  but  to  do  him  honour. 

Your  Royal  Highness  desires  to  know  the  particular 
circumstance  of  his  death.  I  have  seen  Captain  Hardy 
but  for  a  few  minutes  since,  and  understood  from  him,  that 
at  the  time  the  Victory  was  very  closely  engaged  in  rather 
a  crowd  of  ships,  and  that  Lord  Nelson  was  commanding 
some  ship  that  was  conducted  much  to  his  satisfaction, 
when  a  musket-ball  struck  him  on  the  left  breast.  Cap- 
tain Hardy  took  hold  of  him  to  support  him,  when  he  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Hardy,  I  believe  they  have  done  it  at  last." 

He  was  carried  below;  and  when  the  ship  was  dis- 
engaged from  the  crowd,  he  sent  an  officer  to  inform 
me  that  he  was  wounded.  I  asked  the  officer  if  his 
wound  was  dangerous.  He  hesitated ;  then  said  he 
hoped  it  was  not ;  but  I  saw  the  fate  of  my  friend  in 
his  eye ;  for  his  look  told  what  his  tongue  could  not  utter. 
About  an  hour  after,  when  the  action  was  over,  Captain 
Hardy  brought  me  the  melancholy  account  of  his  death. 
He  inquired  frequently  how  the  battle  went,  and  expressed 
joy  when  the  enemy  were  striking ;  in  his  last  moments 
shewing  an  anxiety  for  the  glory  of  his  country,  though 
regardless  of  what  related  to  his  own  person. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir,  your  Royal  Highness's 
most  obedient  and  most  humble  servant. 


Charles  Lamb  loses  an  old  friend        *o      <^      ^> 

COLEBROOKE   ROW,  ISLINGTON 

Saturday,  January  20,  1827 

DEAR  ROBINSON,— I  called  upon  you  this  morning, 
and  found   that  you   were   gone   to  visit   a  dying 
friend.     I   had  been  upon  a  like  errand.     Poor  Norris 
374 


"  None  to  call  me  Charley  now  " 

has  been  lying  dying  for  now  almost  a  week,  such  is  the 
penalty  we  pay  for  having  enjoyed  a  strong  constitution! 
Whether  he  knew  me  or  not,  I  know  not,  or  whether  he 
saw  me  through  his  poor  glazed  eyes ;  but  the  group  I 
saw  about  him  I  shall  not  forget.  Upon  the  bed,  or 
about  it,  were  assembled  his  wife  and  two  daughters, 
and  poor  deaf  Richard,  his  son,  looking  doubly  stupified. 
There  they  were,  and  seemed  to  have  been  sitting  all  the 
week'.  I  could  only  reach  out  a  hand  to  Mrs.  Norris. 
Speaking  was  impossible  in  that  mute  chamber.  By  this 
time  I  hope  it  is  all  over  with  him.  In  him  I  have  a  loss 
the  world  cannot  make  up.  He  was  my  friend  and  my 
father's  friend  all  the  life  I  can  remember.  I  seem  to 
have  made  foolish  friendships  ever  since.  Those  are 
friendships  which  outlive  a  second  generation.  Old  as 
I  am  waxing,  in  his  eyes  I  was  still  the  child  he  first 
knew  me.  To  the  last  he  called  me  Charley.  I  have 
none  to  call  me  Charley  now.  He  was  the  last  link  that 
bound  me  to  the  Temple.  You  are  but  of  yesterday. 
In  him  seem  to  have  died  the  old  plainness  of  manners 
and  singleness  of  heart.  Letters  he  knew  nothing  of, 
nor  did  his  reading  extend  beyond  the  pages  of  the 
Gentleman ^s  Magazine.  Yet  there  was  a  pride  of 
literature  about  him  from  being  amongst  books  (he  was 
librarian),  and  from  some  scraps  of  doubtful  Latin  which 
he  had  picked  up  in  his  office  of  entering  students,  that 
gave  him  very  diverting  airs  of  pedantry.  Can  I  forget 
the  erudite  look  with  which,  when  he  had  been  in  vain 
trying  to  make  out  a  black-letter  text  of  Chaucer  in  the 
Temple  Library,  he  laid  it  down  and  told  me  that — "in 
those  old  books,  Charley,  there  is  sometimes  a  deal  of 
very  indifferent  spelling ; "  and  seemed  to  console  himself 
in  the  reflection!  His  jokes,  for  he  had  his  jokes,  are 
now  ended,  but  they  were  old  trusty  perennials,  staples 
375 


Randal  Norris 

that  pleased  after  decies  repetita,  and  were  always  as 
good  as  new.  One  song  he  had,  which  was  reserved 
for  the  night  of  Christmas -day,  which  we  always  spent 
in  the  Temple.  It  was  an  old  thing,  and  spoke  of  the 
flat  bottoms  of  our  foes  and  the  possibility  of  their  coming 
over  in  darkness,  and  alluded  to  threats  of  an  invasion 
many  years  blown  over;  and  when  he  came  to  the  part 

"  We'll  still  make  'em  run,  and  we'll  still  make  'em  sweat, 
In  spite  of  the  devil  and  Brussels  Gazette  \  " 

his  eyes  would  sparkle  as  with  the  freshness  of  an  im- 
pending event.  And  what  is  the  Brussels  Gazette 
now?  I  cry  while  I  enumerate  these  trifles.  "How 
shall  we  tell  them  in  a  strangers  ear?"  His  poor  good 
girls  will  now  have  to  receive  their  afflicted  mother  in 
an  inaccessible  hovel  in  an  obscure  village  in  Herts, 
where  they  have  been  long  struggling  to  make  a  school 
without  effect;  and  poor  deaf  Richard  —  and  the  more 
helpless  for  being  so  —  is  thrown  on  the  wide  world. 

My  first  motive  in  writing,  and,  indeed,  in  calling  on 
you,  was  to  ask  if  you  were  enough  acquainted  with  any 
of  the  Benchers,  to  lay  a  plain  statement  before  them  of 
the  circumstances  of  the  family.  I  almost  fear  not,  for 
you  are  of  another  hall.  But  if  you  can  oblige  me  and 
my  poor  friend,  who  is  now  insensible  to  any  favours, 
pray  exert  yourself.  You  cannot  say  too  much  good  of 
poor  Norris  and  his  poor  wife.  —  Yours  ever, 

CHARLES  LAMB 


376 


Sweet  Comfort 

Jeremy  Taylor  tells  John   Evelyn  of  the  death  of  a 
little  son        -^>      *^      "s>      ^^      /<^>       ^> 

July  19,  1656 

DEARE  SIR,  —  I  am  in  some  little  disorder  by  reason 
of  the  death  of  a  little  child  of  mine,  a  boy  that 
lately  made  us  very  glad ;    but  now  he  rejoyces   in    his 
little  orbe,  while  we  thinke,  and  sigh,  and  long  to  be  as 
safe  as  he  is.  ... 


Jeremy  Taylor  wishes  John  Evelyn  well        ^>        <^ 

September  15,  1656 

SIR, —  I  pray  God  continue  your  health  and  his 
blessings  to  you  and  your  deare  lady  and  pretty 
babies ;  for  which  I  am  daily  obliged  to  pray,  and  to 
use  all  opportunities  by  which  I  can  signify  that  I 
am,  deare  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  and  endeared 
servant,  JER.  TAYLOR 


Jeremy  Taylor  comforts   John  Evelyn  in   the  death 
of  a  son        *^      x^>       'Qy       <£y       ^>       ^> 

DEARE  SIR,  —  If  dividing  and  sharing  greifes  were 
like  the  cutting   of  rivers,   I  dare  say  to  you,  you 
would   find    your    streame  much   abated ;    for  I   account 
myselfe   to   have  a  great   cause  of  sorrow,  not  onely  in 
the   diminution  of  the  numbers  of  your  joys  and  hopes, 
but  in  the   losse  of  that  pretty    person,   your  strangely 
hopeful  boy.     I   cannot  tell  all  my  owne  sorrowes  with- 
out adding  to  yours ;  and  the  causes  of  my  real  sadnesse 
in  your  loss  are  so  just  and  so  reasonable,  that  I   can 
377 


"Two  bright  Starres  " 

no  otherwise  comfort  you  but  by  telling  you,  that  you 
have  very  great  cause  to  mourne :  so  certaine  it  is  that 
greife  does  propagate  as  fire  does.  You  have  enkindled 
my  funeral  torch,  and  by  joining  mine  to  yours,  I  doe 
but  encrease  the  flame.  Hoc  me  male  urit,  is  the  best 
signification  of  my  apprehension  of  your  sad  story.  But, 
Sir,  I  cannot  choose,  but  I  must  hold  another  and  a 
brighter  flame  to  you,  it  is  already  burning  in  your 
heart;  and  if  I  can  but  remoove  the  darke  side  of  the 
lanthorne,  you  have  enoughe  within  you  to  warme 
yourself,  and  to  shine  to  others.  Remember,  Sir,  your 
two  boyes  are  two  bright  starres,  and  their  innocence 
is  secured,  and  you  shall  never  hear  evil  of  them  agayne. 
Their  state  is  safe,  and  heaven  is  given  to  them  upon 
very  easy  termes ;  nothing  but  to  be  borne  and  die.  It 
will  cost  you  more  trouble  to  get  where  they  are ;  and 
amongst  other  things  one  of  the  hardnesses  will  be, 
that  you  must  overcome  even  this  just  and  reasonable 
greife ;  and,  indeed,  though  the  greife  hath  but  too 
reasonable  a  cause,  yet  it  is  much  more  reasonable  that 
you  master  it.  For  besides  that  they  are  no  loosers, 
but  you  are  the  person  that  complaines,  doe  but  con- 
sider what  you  would  have  suffer'd  for  their  interest : 
you  [would]  have  suffered  them  to  goe  from  you,  to  be 
great  princes  in  a  strange  country :  and  if  you  can  be 
content  to  suffer  your  owne  inconvenience  for  their 
interest,  you  command  [commend?]  your  worthiest  love, 
and  the  question  of  mourning  is  at  an  end.  But  you 
have  said  and  done  well,  when  you  looke  upon  it  as  a 
rod  of  God ;  and  he  that  so  smites  here  will  spare 
hereafter :  and  if  you,  by  patience  and  submission, 
imprint  the  discipline  upon  your  own  flesh,  you  kill  the 
cause,  and  make  the  effect  very  tolerable ;  because  it 
is,  in  some  sense,  chosen,  and  therefore,  in  no  sense, 

378 


Christian  to  Christian 

insufferable.  Sir,  if  you  doe  not  looke  to  it,  time  will 
snatch  your  honour  from  you,  and  reproach  you  for  not 
effecting  that  by  Christian  philosophy  which  time  will 
doe  alone.  And  if  you  consider,  that  of  the  bravest 
men  in  the  world,  we  find  the  seldomest  stories  of  their 
children,  and  the  apostles  had  none,  and  thousands  of 
the  worthiest  persons,  that  sound  most  in  story,  died 
childlesse :  you  will  find  it  is  a  rare  act  of  Providence 
so  to  impose  upon  worthy  men  a  necessity  of  per- 
petuating their  names  by  worthy  actions  and  discourses, 
governments  and  reasonings.  If  the  breach  be  never 
repaired,  it  is  because  God  does  not  see  it  fitt  to  be ; 
and  if  you  will  be  of  his  mind,  it  will  be  much  the 
better.  But,  Sir,  you  will  pardon  my  zeale  and  passion 
for  your  comfort,  I  will  readily  confesse  that  you  have 
no  need  of  any  discourse  from  me  to  comfort  you.  Sir, 
now  you  have  an  opportunity  of  serving  God  by  passive 
graces ;  strive  to  be  an  example  and  a  comfort  to  your 
lady,  and  by  your  wise  counsel  and  comfort,  stand  in 
the  breaches  of  your  owne  family,  and  make  it  appeare 
that  you  are  more  to  her  than  ten  sons.  Sir,  by  the 
assistance  of  Almighty  God,  I  purpose  to  wait  on  you 
some  time  next  weeke,  that  I  may  be  a  witnesse  of 
your  Christian  courage  and  bravery ;  and  that  I  may 
see,  that  God  never  displeases  you,  as  long  as  the  main 
stake  is  preserved,  I  meane  your  hopes  and  confidences 
of  heaven.  Sir,  I  shal  pray  you  for  all  that  you  can 
want,  that  is,  some  degrees  of  comfort  and  a  present 
mind ;  and  shal  alwayes  doe  you  honour,  and  faine  also 
would  doe  you  service,  if  it  were  in  the  power,  as  it  is 
in  the  affections  and  desires  of,  dear  Sir,  your  most 
affectionate  and  obliged  friend  and  servant, 

JER.  TAYLOR 
February  17,  1657-8 

379 


"  As  he  opened  a  note  which  his  servant  brought  to 
him,  he  said,  'An  odd  thought  strikes  me:  we  shall 
receive  no  letters  in  the  grave." 

BOSWELL  (of  Dr.  Johnson). 


XIX 

SIX    POSTSCRIPTS 


POSTSCRIPT   I 
Remarks  on  the  Gentlest  Art  by  good  intellects       -^ 

I.    Dr.  Johnson  (in  his  Dictionary) 
^ 
LETTER 

2.   A  written  message ;  an  epistle. 

They  use  to  write  it  on  the  top  of 
letters.  — Shakespeare. 

I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder 
at.  —  Shakespeare. 

When  a  Spaniard  would  write  a  letter  by  him,  the 
Indian  would  marvel  how  it  should  be  possible,  that 
he,  to  whom  he  came,  should  be  able  to  know  all 
things.  —  Abbot. 

The  asses  will  do  very  well  for  trumpeters,  and  the 
hares  will  make  excellent  letter  carriers.  —  D Estranges 
Fables. 

The  stile  of  letters  ought  to  be  free,  easy,  and  natural ; 
as  near  approaching  to  familiar  conversation  as  possible : 
the  two  best  qualities  in  conversation  are,  good  humour 
and  good  breeding ;  those  letters  are  therefore  cer- 
tainly the  best  that  show  the  most  of  these  two 
qualities.  —  Walsh. 

382 


Sam  in  the  City 

Mrs.  P.  B.  has  writ  to  me,  and  is  one  of  the  best  letter 
writers  I  know ;  very  good  sense,  civility  and  friendship, 
without  any  stiffness  or  constraint.  —  Swift. 

II.   Samuel  and  Antony  Weller 

MR.  WELLER  having  obtained  leave  of  absence 
from  Mr.  Pickwick,  who,  in  his  then  state  of 
excitement  and  worry,  was  by  no  means  displeased  at 
being  left  alone,  set  forth,  long  before  the  appointed  hour, 
and  having  plenty  of  time  at  his  disposal,  sauntered  down 
as  far  as  the  Mansion  House,  where  he  paused  and  con- 
templated, with  a  face  of  great  calmness  and  philosophy, 
the  numerous  cads  and  drivers  of  short  stages  who 
assemble  near  that  famous  place  of  resort,  to  the  great 
terror  and  confusion  of  the  old-lady  population  of  these 
realms.  Having  loitered  here,  for  half  an  hour  or  so, 
Mr.  Weller  turned,  and  began  wending  his  way  towards 
Leadenhall  Market,  through  a  variety  of  bye  streets  and 
courts.  As  he  was  sauntering  away  his  spare  time,  and 
stopped  to  look  at  almost  every  object  that  met  his 
gaze,  it  is  by  no  means  surprising  that  Mr.  Weller  should 
have  paused  before  a  small  stationer's  and  print-seller's 
window ;  but  without  further  explanation  it  does  appear 
surprising  that  his  eyes  should  have  no  sooner  rested  on 
certain  pictures  which  were  exposed  for  sale  therein,  than 
he  gave  a  sudden  start,  smote  his  right  leg  with  great 
vehemence,  and  exclaimed,  with  energy,  "  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  this,  I  should  ha'  forgot  all  about  it,  till  it  was 
too  late  ! " 

The  particular  picture  on  which  Sam  Weller's  eyes 
were  fixed,  as  he  said  this,  was  a  highly-coloured  repre- 
sentation of  a  couple  of  human  hearts  skewered  together 
with  an  arrow,  cooking  before  a  cheerful  fire,  while  a 

383 


The  Valentine 

male  and  female  cannibal  in  modern  attire,  the  gentleman 
being  clad  in  a  blue  coat  and  white  trousers,  and  the  lady 
in  a  deep  red  pelisse  with  a  parasol  of  the  same,  were 
approaching  the  meal  with  hungry  eyes,  up  a  serpentine 
gravel  path  leading  thereunto.  A  decidedly  indelicate 
young  gentleman,  in  a  pair  of  wings  and  nothing  else,  was 
depicted  as  superintending  the  cooking ;  a  representation 
of  the  spire  of  the  church  in  Langham  Place,  London, 
appeared  in  the  distance;  and  the  whole  formed  a 
"valentine,"  of  which,  as  a  written  inscription  in  the 
window  testified,  there  was  a  large  assortment  within, 
which  the  shopkeeper  pledged  himself  to  dispose  of,  to 
his  countrymen  generally,  at  the  reduced  rate  of  one-and- 
sixpence  each. 

"  I  should  ha'  forgot  it ;  I  should  certainly  ha'  forgot 
it  ! "  said  Sam ;  so  saying,  he  at  once  stepped  into  the 
stationer's  shop,  and  requested  to  be  served  with  a  sheet 
of  the  best  gilt-edged  letter-paper,  and  a  hard-nibbed  pen 
which  could  be  warranted  not  to  splutter.  These  articles 
having  been  promptly  supplied,  he  walked  on  direct 
towards  Leadenhall  Market  at  a  good  round  pace,  very 
different  from  his  recent  lingering  one.  Looking  round 
him,  he  there  beheld  'a  sign-board  on  which  the  painter's 
art  had  delineated  something  remotely  resembling  a 
cerulean  elephant  with  an  aquiline  nose  in  lieu  of  trunk. 
Rightly  conjecturing  that  this  was  the  Blue  Boar  himself, 
he  stepped  into  the  house,  and  inquired  concerning  his 
parent. 

"  He  won't  be  here  this  three-quarters  of  an  hour  or 
more,"  said  the  young  lady  who  superintended  the 
domestic  arrangements  of  the  Blue  Boar. 

"  Wery  good,  my  dear,"  replied  Sam.  "  Let  me  have 
nine-pen n'oth  o'  brandy-and-water  luke,  and  the  inkstand, 
will  you,  miss  ?  " 

384 


A  sympathetic  Tongue 

The  brandy-and-water  hike,  and  the  inkstand,  having 
been  carried  into  the  little  parlour,  and  the  young  lady 
having  carefully  flattened  down  the  coals  to  prevent  their 
blazing,  and  carried  away  the  poker  to  preclude  the  possi- 
bility of  the  fire  being  stirred,  without  the  full  privity  and 
concurrence  of  the  Blue  Boar  being  first  had  and  obtained, 
Sam  Weller  sat  himself  down  in  a  box  near  the  stove,  and 
pulled  out  the  sheet  of  gilt-edged  letter-paper,  and  the 
hard-nibbed  pen.  Then  looking  carefully  at  the  pen  to 
see  that  there  were  no  hairs  in  it,  and  dusting  down  the 
table,  so  that  there  might  be  no  crumbs  of  bread  under 
the  paper,  Sam  tucked  up  the  cuffs  of  his  coat,  squared  his 
elbows,  and  composed  himself  to  write. 

To  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  not  in  the  habit  of 
devoting  themselves  practically  to  the  science  of  penman- 
ship, writing  a  letter  is  no  very  easy  task  ;  it  being  always 
considered  necessary  in  such  cases  for  the  writer  to  re- 
cline his  head  on  his  left  arm,  so  as  to  place  his  eyes  as 
nearly  as  possible  on  a  level  with  the  paper,  and,  while 
glancing  sideways  at  the  letters  he  is  constructing,  to 
form  with  his  tongue  imaginary  characters  to  correspond. 
These  motions,  although  unquestionably  of  the  greatest 
assistance  to  original  composition,  retard  in  some  degree 
the  progress  of  the  writer;  and  Sam  had  unconsciously 
been  a  full  hour  and  a  half  writing  words  in  small  text, 
smearing  out  wrong  letters  with  his  little  finger,  and  put- 
ting in  new  ones  which  required  going  over  very  often  to 
render  them  visible  through  the  old  blots,  when  he  was 
roused  by  the  opening  of  the  door  and  the  entrance  of  his 
parent. 

"  Veil,  Sammy,"  said  the  father. 

"Veil,  my  Prooshan  Blue,"  responded  the  son,  laying 
down  his  pen.  "What's  the  last  bulletin  about  mother- 
in-law  ?  " 

2C  385 


A  Father's  Warning 

"  Mrs.  Veller  passed  a  very  good  night,  but  is  uncom- 
mon perwerse  and  unpleasant  this  mornin'.  Signed  upon 
oath,  S.  Veller,  Esquire  Senior.  That's  the  last  vun  as  was 
issued,  Sammy,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  untying  his  shawl. 

"  No  better  yet?  "  inquired  Sam. 

"All  the  symptoms  aggerawated,"  replied  Mr.  Weller, 
shaking  his  head.  "But  wot's  that  you're  a-doin1  of? 
Pursuit  of  knowledge  under  difficulties,  Sammy?  " 

"  I've  done  now,"  said  Sam,  with  slight  embarrassment ; 
"I've  been  a-writin'." 

"  So  I  see,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "  Not  to  any  young 
'ooman,  I  hope,  Sammy?" 

"  Why,  it's  no  use  a-sayin'  it  ain't,"  replied  Sam  ;  "  it's  a 
walentine." 

"  A  what  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Weller,  apparently  horror- 
stricken  by  the  word. 

"A  walentine,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Samivel,  Samivel,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  in  reproachful 
accents,  "  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it.  Arter  the 
warnin'  you've  had  o'  your  father's  wicious  propensities ; 
arter  all  I've  said  to  you  upon  this  here  wery  subject; 
arter  actiwally  seein'  and  bein'  in  the  company  o'  your 
own  mother-in-law,  vich  I  should  ha'  thought  wos  a  moral 
lesson  as  no  man  could  never  ha'  forgotten  to  his  dyin' 
day!  I  didn't  think  you'd  ha'  done  it,  Sammy,  I  didn't 
think  you'd  ha'  done  it  ! "  These  reflections  were  too 
much  for  the  good  old  man.  He  raised  Sam's  tumbler  to 
his  lips  and  drank  off  its  contents. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  now?  "said  Sam. 

"  Nev'r  mind,  Sammy,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  "  it'll  be  a 
wery  agonisin'  trial  to  me  at  my  time  of  life,  but  I'm 
pretty  tough,  that's  vun  consolation,  as  the  wery  old  turkey 
remarked  wen  the  farmer  sai'd  he  wos  afeerd  he  should  be 
obliged  to  kill  him  for  the  London  market." 


Mr.  Weller  is  mollified 

"  Wot'll  be  a  trial  ?  "  inquired  Sam. 

"  To  see  you  married,  Sammy  —  to  see  you  a  dilluded 
wictim,  and  thinkin'  in  your  innocence  that  it's  all  wery 
capital,"  replied  Mr.  Weller.  "  It's  a  dreadful  trial  to  a 
father's  feelin's,  that  'ere,  Sammy." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Sam.  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  get  married, 
don't  you  fret  yourself  about  that ;  I  know  you're  a  judge 
of  these  things.  Order  in  your  pipe  and  I'll  read  you  the 
letter.  There!" 

We  cannot  distinctly  say  whether  it  was  the  prospect 
of  the  pipe,  or  the  consolatory  reflection  that  a  fatal  dis- 
position to  get  married  ran  in  the  family,  and  couldn't  be 
helped,  which  calmed  Mr.  Weller's  feelings,  and  caused  his 
grief  to  subside.  We  should  be  rather  disposed  to  say 
that  the  result  was  attained  by  combining  the  two  sources 
of  consolation,  for  he  repeated  the  second  in  a  low  tone, 
very  frequently ;  ringing  the  bell  meanwhile,  to  order  in 
the  first.  He  then  divested  himself  of  his  upper  coat; 
and  lighting  the  pipe  and  placing  himself  in  front  of  the 
fire  with  his  back  towards  it,  so  that  he  could  feel  its  full 
heat,  and  recline  against  the  mantelpiece  at  the  same  time, 
turned  towards  Sam,  and,  with  a  countenance  greatly  molli- 
fied by  the  softening  influence  of  tobacco,  requested  him  to 
"  fire  away." 

Sam  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink  to  be  ready  for  any  cor- 
rections, and  began  with  a  very  theatrical  air  — 

"<  Lovely '" 

"  Stop,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  ringing  the  bell.  "  A  double 
glass  o'  the  inwariable,  my  dear." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  replied  the  girl ;  who  with  great  quick- 
ness appeared,  vanished,  returned,  and  disappeared. 

"  They  seem  to  know  your  ways  here,"  observed  Sam. 

"  Yes,"  replied  his  father,  "  I've  been  here  before,  in 
my  time.  Go  on,  Sammy." 

387 


"That  ain't  proper" 

" '  Lovely  creetur,'  "  repeated  Sam. 

"  'Tain't  in  poetry,  is  it  ?  "  interposed  his  father. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Sam. 

"Wery  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr.  Weller.  "Poetry's 
unnat'ral ;  no  man  ever  talked  poetry  'cept  a  beadle  on 
boxin'-day,  or  Warren's  blackin',  or  Rowland's  oil,  or  some 
of  them  low  fellows ;  never  you  let  yourself  down  to  talk 
poetry,  my  boy.  Begin  again,  Sammy." 

Mr.  Weller  resumed  his  pipe  with  critical  solemnity,  and 
Sam  once  more  commenced,  and  read  as  follows  :  — 

"  <  Lovely  creetur  I  feel  myself  a  damned '  " 

"  That  ain't  proper,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth. 

"  No ;  it  ain't  e  damned,' "  observed  Sam,  holding  the 
letter  up  to  the  light,  "  it's  <  shamed,'  there's  a  blot  there 
—  <  I  feel  myself  ashamed.'  " 

"  Wery  good,"  said  Mr.  Weller.     "  Go  on." 

"  '  Feel  myself  ashamed,  and  completely  cir '  I  for- 
get what  this  here  word  is,"  said  Sam,  scratching  his  head 
with  the  pen,  in  vain  attempts  to  remember. 

"  Why  don't  you  look  at  it,  then  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

*  So  I  am  a-lookin'  at  it,"  replied  Sam,  "  but  there's 
another  blot.  Here's  a  <  c,'  and  a  ' i,'  and  a  i  d.'  " 

"  Circumwented,  p'raps,"  suggested  Mr.  Weller. 

"  No,  it  ain't  that,"  said  Sam ;  "  <  circumscribed '  ; 
that's  it." 

"  That  ain't  as  good  a  word  as  '  circumwented,'  Sammy," 
said  Mr.  Weller  gravely. 

"Think  not?"  said  Sam. 

"Nothin'  like  it,"  replied  his  father. 

"  But  don't  you  think  it  means  more?  "  inquired  Sam. 

"Veil  p'raps  it's  a  more  tenderer  word,"  said  Mr.  Weller, 
after  a  few  moments'  reflection.  "  Go  on,  Sammy." 

"  <  Feel  myself  ashamed  and  completely  circumscribed 
388 


Euphues  condemned 


in  a-dressin'  of  you,  for  you  are  a  nice  gal  and  nothin1 
but  it.' " 

"That's  a  wery  pretty  sentiment,"  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller,  removing  his  pipe  to  make  way  for  the  remark. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  rayther  good,"  observed  Sam,  highly 
flattered. 

"  Wot  I  like  in  that  'ere  style  of  writin',"  said  the  elder 
Mr.  Weller,  "is,  that  there  ain't  no  callin'  names  in  it  — 
no  Wenuses,  nor  nothin'  o'  that  kind.  Wot\s  the  good 
o'  callin'  a  young  'ooman  a  Wenus  or  a  angel,  Sammy?" 

"Ah  !  what,  indeed? "  replied  Sam. 

"You  might  jist  as  well  call  her  a  griffin,  or  a  unicorn, 
or  a  king's  arms  at  once,  which  is  wery  well  known  to  be 
a  col-lection  o'  fabulous  animals,"  added  Mr.  Weller. 

"  Just  as  well,"  replied  Sam. 

"  Drive  on,  Sammy,"  said  Mr.  Weller. 

Sam  complied  with  the  request,  and  proceeded  as 
follows ;  his  father  continuing  to  smoke,  with  a  mixed 
expression  of  wisdom  and  complacency,  which  was  par- 
ticularly edifying. 

"  i  Afore  I  see  you,  I  thought  all  women  was  alike.'  " 

"So  they  are,"  observed  the  elder  Mr.  Weller 
parenthetically. 

"  <  But  now,' "  continued  Sam,  " '  now  I  find  what  a 
reg'lar  soft-headed,  inkred'lous  turnip  I  must  ha'  been ; 
for  there  ain't  nobody  like  you,  though  I  like  you  better 
than  nothin'  at  all.'  I  thought  it  best  to  make  that 
rayther  strong,"  said  Sam,  looking  up. 

Mr.  Weller  nodded  approvingly,  and  Sam  resumed. 

"'So  I  take  the  priviiidge  of  the  day,  Mary,  my  dear  — 
as  the  gen'l'm'n  in  difficulties  did,  ven  he  valked  out  of  a 
Sunday  —  to  tell  you  that  the  first  and  only  time  I  see 
you,  your  likeness  was  took  on  my  hart  in  much  quicker 
time  and  brighter  colours  than  ever  a  likeness  was  took 
389 


"The  great  Art  o'   Letter-writin' " 

by  the  profeel  macheen  (wich  p'raps  you  may  have  heerd 
on  Mary  my  dear)  altho  it  does  finish  a  portrait  and  put 
the  frame  and  glass  on  complete,  with  a  hook  at  the  end 
to  hang  it  up  by,  and  all  in  two  minutes  and  a  quarter.' " 

"I  am  afeerd  that  werges  on  the  poetical,  Sammy," 
said  Mr.  Weller  dubiously. 

"  No,  it  don't,"  replied  Sam,  reading  on  very  quickly, 
to  avoid  contesting  the  point  — 

" '  Except  of  me  Mary  my  dear  as  your  walentine  and 
think  over  what  I've  said.  —  My  dear  Mary  I  will  now 
conclude.'  That's  all,"  said  Sam. 

"That's  rather  a  sudden  pull-up,  ain't  it,  Sammy?" 
inquired  Mr.  Weller. 

"Not  a  bit  on  it,"  said  Sam;  "she'll  vish  there  wos 
more,  and  that's  the  great  art  o'  letter-writin'." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Weller,  "there's  somethin'  in  that; 
and  I  wish  your  mother-in-law  'ud  only  conduct  her 
conwersation  on  the  same  gen-teel  principle.  Ain't  you 
a-goin'  to  sign  it  ?  " 

"  That's  the  difficulty,"  said  Sam ;  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  sign  it." 

"  Sign  it  — i  Veller,' "  said  the  oldest  surviving  proprietor 
of  that  name. 

"Won't  do,"  said  Sam.  "  Never  sign  a  walentine  with 
your  own  name." 

"Sign  it  'Pickwick,'  then,"  said  Mr.  Weller;  "it's  a 
wery  good  name,  and  a  easy  one  to  spell." 

"The  wery  thing,"  said  Sam.  "I  could  end  with  a 
werse  ;  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  don't  like  it,  Sam,"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller.  "I  never 
know'd  a  respectable  coachman  as  wrote  poetry,  'cept 
one,  as  made  an  affectin'  copy  o'  werses  the  night  afore 
he  was  hung  for  a  highway  robbery ;  and  he  wos  only  a 
Cambervell  man,  so  even  that's  no  rule." 
39° 


Another  Father's  Views 

But   Sam  was  not  to  be  dissuaded  from  the  poetical 
idea  that  had  occurred  to  him,  so  he  signed  the  letter  — 

"  Your  love-sick 
Pickwick." 

And  having  folded  it,  in  a  very  intricate  manner, 
squeezed  a  downhill  direction  in  one  corner:  "To 
Mary,  Housemaid,  at  Mr.  Nupkins's,  Mayor's,  Ipswich^ 
Suffolk  " ;  and  put  it  into  his  pocket,  wafered,  and  ready 
for  the  general  post. 

CHARLES  DICKENS 


III.   Gregory  (in  a  letter  to  Nicobulus) 

OF  those  who  write  epistles,  (since  you  ask  for  my 
sentiments  on  this  subject)  my  opinion  is,  that 
some  make  their  letters  too  lengthy,  and  others  far  too 
short  for  the  occasion.  Both  these  depart  from  the 
just  mean,  as  archers  miss  the  mark,  whether  they  shoot 
beyond  it,  or  come  short  of  it.  For  the  error  is  the  same, 
though  it  is  committed  in  opposite  ways.  The  measure 
of  letter-writing  is  the  requirement  of  the  subject  matter. 
For  we  neither  ought  to  be  long  where  there  is  not  much 
to  say,  nor  brief  where  there  is  a  press  of  matter.  What 
then?  Is  it  proper  to  measure  wisdom  by  the  Persian 
line,  or  by  the  cubits  of  children,  and  to  write  so  uncom- 
pletely  as  to  write,  in  fact,  nothing;  emulating  the 
noontide  shadows  which  lie  immediately  before  us  at  our 
feet,  the  limits  whereof  are  scarcely  visible,  and  are 
rather  glanced  at  than  seen,  and  are,  if  I  may  so  say,  the 
shadows  of  shades  ?  Whereas  the  right  proceeding  is  to 
avoid  the  excess  in  either  way,  and  to  adopt  a  middle 
course.  Concerning  the  concise  method  of  writing  this 
is  my  opinion. 

391 


The  best  Epistle 

Concerning  perspicuity  this  is  plain,  that  we  should 
avoid  as  much  as  possible  the  style  of  an  essay,  and  aim 
rather  at  a  familiar  phraseology,  and  to  say  all  in  a  few 
words. 

That  is  the  best  epistle,  and  the  most  happily  com- 
posed, which  is  calculated  to  bring  its  matter  home  both 
to  the  learned  and  to  the  unlearned,  —  to  the  one  as  being 
accommodated  in  language  to  the  level  of  the  multitude ; 
and  to  the  other,  as  being  raised  in  thought  above  that 
level ;  that  which  is  understood  as  soon  as  read.  For  it 
is  equally  incongruous  that  a  riddle  should  be  plain,  and 
that  an  epistle  should  need  interpretation. 

The  third  requisite  in  letter-writing  is  grace  of  expres- 
sion. For  we  must  avoid  a  diction  dry  and  harsh,  and 
expressions  that  are  coarse,  inelegant,  or  dull;  as 
where  a  letter  is  devoid  of  pointed  sentences,  adages, 
apophthegms,  yes,  and  of  jests  too,  and  enigmatical 
allusions,  by  which  this  sort  of  composition  is  rendered 
more  pleasing.  But  let  us  avoid  excess  in  the  use  of 
these  things.  By  the  want  of  them  we  are  dull  and 
insipid ;  by  the  adoption  of  them  we  are  in  danger  of 
being  carried  too  far.  We  should  use  them  to  the  same 
extent  as  purple  is  admitted  into  the  texture  of  woven 
garments.  We  may  introduce  figures,  too,  but  these  should 
be  few,  and  not  immodest.  But  let  us  cast  to  the  sophists 
antitheses,  jingling  words,  and  balanced  sentences  with 
similar  terminations.  Or  if  we  do  occasionally  introduce 
them,  let  it  be  in  a  playful  way,  and  not  when  we  are 
treating  of  serious  matters.  I  will  end  my  observations 
on  this  subject  by  mentioning  what  I  once  heard  from  a 
man  of  wit  about  the  eagle.  When  the  birds  were 
contending  for  the  throne,  and  some  came  adorned  in 
one  way,  some  in  another,  it  was  his  greatest  ornament 
to  appear  before  them  unadorned.  This  also  should 
392 


The  Tongue  and  the  Pen 

be  especially  observed  in  epistles,  —  to  be  without  the 
affectation  of  ornament,  and  to  come  as  close  as  possible 
to  nature.  Thus  far,  in  an  epistle,  I  have  sent  you  my 
sentiments  concerning  epistles.  But  a  subject  such  as 
this,  perhaps,  is  not  the  province  of  one  who  ought  to  be 
engaged  in  higher  matters.  What  else  belongs  to  the 
subject  you  may  search  for  yourself  with  your  quickness 
of  apprehension ;  and  those  who  are  wise  in  these 
matters  will  assist  your  enquiries. 


IV.    James  Howell 

IT  was  a  quaint  difference  the  Ancients  did  put  'twixt  a 
Letter,  and  an  Oration ;  that  the  one  should  be 
attir'd  like  a  Woman,  the  other  like  a  Man :  the  latter 
of  the  two  is  allow'd  large-side  Robes,  as  long  Periods 
Parentheses,  Similes,  Examples,  and  other  parts  of 
Rhetorical  flourishes :  But  a  Letter  or  Epistle  should 
be  short-coated,  and  closely  couch'd ;  a  Hungerlin  be- 
comes a  Letter  more  handsomly  than  a  Gown.  Indeed 
we  should  write  as  we  speak ;  and  that's  a  true  familiar 
Letter  which  expresseth  one's  Mind,  as  if  he  were  dis- 
coursing with  the  Party  to  whom  he  writes  in  succinct 
and  short  Terms.  The  Tongue  and  the  Pen,  are  both 
of  them  Interpreters  of  the  Mind ;  but  I  hold  the  Pen 
to  be  the  more  faithful  of  the  two :  The  Tongue  in  udo 
posita,  being  seated  in  a  moist  slippery  place  may  fail 
and  falter  in  her  sudden  extemporal  Expressions ;  but 
the  Pen  having  a  greater  advantage  of  premeditation, 
is  not  so  subject  to  error,  and  leaves  things  behind  it 
upon  firm  and  authentic  record. 


393 


Colloquial  Eloquence 

V.  Sir  James  Mackintosh 

WHEN  a  woman  of  feeling,  fancy,  and  accomplish- 
ment has  learned  to  converse  with  ease  and  grace, 
from  long  intercourse  with  the  most  polished  society,  and 
when  she  writes  as  she  speaks,  she  must  write  letters  as 
they  ought  to  be  written,  if  she  has  acquired  just  as  much 
habitual  correctness  as  is  reconcilable  with  the  air  of 
negligence.  A  moment  of  enthusiasm,  a  burst  of  feeling, 
a  flash  of  eloquence  may  be  allowed,  but  the  intercourse 
of  society,  either  in  conversation  or  in  letters,  allows  no 
more.  Though  interdicted  from  the  long  continued  use 
of  elevated  language,  they  are  not  without  a  resource. 
There  is  a  part  of  language  which  is  disdained  by  the 
pedant  or  the  disclaimer,  and  which  both  if  they  knew 
its  difficulty  would  dread ;  it  is  formed  of  the  most 
familiar  phrases  and  turns  in  daily  use  by  the  generality 
of  men,  and  is  full  of  energy  and  vivacity,  bearing  upon 
it  the  mark  of  those  keen  feelings  and  strong  passions 
from  which  it  springs.  It  is  the  employment  of  such 
phrases  which  produces  what  may  be  called  colloquial 
eloquence.  Conversation  and  letters  may  be  thus  raised 
to  any  degree  of  animation  without  departing  from  their 
character.  Anything  may  be  said,  if  it  be  spoken  in  the 
tone  of  society ;  the  highest  guests  are  welcome,  if  they 
come  in  the  easy  undress  of  the  club ;  the  strongest 
metaphor  appears  without  violence,  if  it  is  familiarly 
expressed;  and  we  the  more  easily  catch  the  warmest 
feeling,  if  we  perceive  that  it  is  intentionally  lowered  in 
expression  out  of  condescension  to  our  calmer  temper. 
It  is  thus  that  harangues  and  declamations,  the  last  proof 
of  bad  taste  and  bad  manners  in  conversation,  are 
avoided,  while  the  fancy  and  the  heart  find  the  means 
of  pouring  forth  all  their  stores.  To  meet  this  despised 
394 


"  So  unlike  Author-craft  " 

part  of  language  in  a  polished  dress,  and  producing  all 
the  effects  of  wit  and  eloquence,  is  a  constant  source  of 
agreeable  surprise.  This  is  increased  when  a  few  bolder 
and  higher  words  are  happily  wrought  into  the  texture 
of  this  familiar  eloquence.  To  find  what  seems  so 
unlike  author-craft  in  a  book,  raises'  the  pleasing 
astonishment  to  the  highest  degree.  .  .  .  Letters  must 
not  be  on  a  subject. 

VI.  Dr.  Grimstone 

N'T  begin  to  write  yet,  any  of  you,"  said  the 
Doctor ;  "  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you  first. 
In  most  cases,  and  as  a  general  rule,  I  think  it  wisest  to 
let  every  boy  commit  to  paper  whatever  his  feelings  may 
dictate  to  him.  I  wish  to  claim  no  censorship  over  the 
style  and  diction  of  your  letters.  But  there  have  been 
so  many  complaints  lately  from  the  parents  of  some  of 
the  less  advanced  of  you,  that  I  find  myself  obliged  to 
make  a  change.  Your  father  particularly,  Richard 
Bultitude,"  he  added,  turning  suddenly  upon  the  unlucky 
Paul,  "  has  complained  bitterly  of  the  slovenly  tone  and 
phrasing  of  your  correspondence ;  he  said  very  justly 
that  they  would  disgrace  a  stable-boy,  and  unless  I  could 
induce  you  to  improve  them,  he  begged  he  might  not  be 
annoyed  by  them  in  future." 

It  was  by  no  means  the  least  galling  part  of  Mr.  Bulti- 
tude^  trials,  that  former  forgotten  words  and  deeds  of 
his  in  his  original  condition  were  constantly  turning  up  at 
critical  seasons,  and  plunging  him  deeper  into  the  morass 
just  when  he  saw  some  prospect  of  gaining  firm  ground. 

So  on  this  occasion,  he  did  remember  that,  being  in  a 
more  than  usually  bad  temper  one  day  last  year,  he  had, 
on  receiving  a  sprawling,  ill-spelt  application  from  Dick 
395 


Jolland  the  Cynic 

for  more  pocket  money,  to  buy  fireworks  for  the  5th  of 
November,  written  to  make  some  such  complaint  to  the 
schoolmaster.  He  waited  anxiously  for  the  Doctor's  next 
words;  he  might  want  to  read  the  letters  before  they 
were  sent  off,  in  which  case  Paul  would  not  be  displeased, 
for  it  would  be  an  easier  and  less  dangerous  way  of  put- 
ting the  Doctor  in  possession  of  the  facts. 

But  his  complaints  were  to  be  honoured  by  a  much 
more  effectual  remedy,  for  it  naturally  piqued  the  Doctor 
to  be  told  that  boys  instructed  under  his  auspices  wrote 
like  stable-boys.  "  However,"  he  went  on,  "  I  wish  your 
people  at  home  to  be  assured  from  time  to  time  of  your 
welfare,  and  to  prevent  them  from  being  shocked  and 
distressed  in  future  by  the  crudity  of  your  communica- 
tions, I  have  drawn  up  a  short  form  of  letter  for  the  use 
of  the  lower  boys  in  the  second  form  —  which  I  shall  now 
proceed  to  dictate.  Of  course  all  boys  in  the  first  form, 
and  all  in  the  second  above  Bultitude  and  Jolland,  will 
write  as  they  please,  as  usual.  Richard,  I  expect  you 
to  take  particular  pains  to  write  this  out  neatly.  Are 
you  all  ready?  Very  well,  then  .  .  .  now";  and  he  read 
out  the  following  letter,  slowly  — 

"My  dear  Parents  (or  parent  according  to  circum- 
stances), comma"  (all  of  which  several  took  down  most 
industriously) — "You  will  be  rejoiced  to  hear  that, 
having  arrived  with  safety  at  our  destination,  we  have 
by  this  time  fully  resumed  our  customary  regular  round 
of  earnest  work  relieved  and  sweetened  by  hearty  play." 
("Have  you  all  got  *  hearty  play'  down ?"  inquired  the 
Doctor  rather  suspiciously,  while  Jolland  observed  in 
an  undertone  that  it  would  take  some  time  to  get  that 
down.)  "  I  hope,  I  trust  I  may  say  without  undue 
conceit,  to  have  made  considerable  progress  in  my 
school-tasks  before  I  rejoin  the  family  circle  for  the 
396 


The  Pious 


Easter  vacation,  as  I  think  you  will  admit  when  I  inform 
you  of  the  programme  we  intend"  ("  D.V.  in  brackets 
and  capital  letters"  —  as  before,  this  was  taken  down 
verbatim  by  Jolland,  who  probably  knew  very  much 
better),  "  intend  to  work  out  during  the  term. 

"  In  Latin,  the  class  of  which  I  am  a  member  propose 
to  thoroughly  master  the  first  book  of  Virgil's  magnifi- 
cent Epic,  need  I  say  I  refer  to  the  soul-moving  story 
of  the  Pious  yEneas  ?"  (Jolland  was  understood  by  his 
near  neighbours  to  remark  that  he  thought  the  explana- 
tion distinctly  advisable),  "whilst,  in  Greek,  we  have 
already  commenced  the  thrilling  account  of  the  Ana- 
basis of  Xenophon,  that  master  of  strategy  !  nor  shall 
we,  of  course,  neglect  in  either  branch  of  study  the 
syntax  and  construction  of  those  two  noble  languages  " 
—  ("  noble  languages  !  "  echoed  the  writers  mechan- 
ically, contriving  to  insinuate  a  touch  of  irony  into  the 
words)  . 

"In  German,  under  the  able  tutelage  of  Herr  Stoh- 
wasser,  who,  as  I  may  possibly  have  mentioned  to  you 
in  casual  conversation,  is  a  graduate  of  the  University 
of  Heidelberg"  ("and  a  silly  old  hass,"  added  Jolland, 
parenthetically),  "  we  have  resigned  ourselves  to  the  spell 
of  the  Teutonian  Shakespeare  "  (there  was  much  differ- 
ence of  opinion  as  to  the  manner  of  spelling  the 
"  Teutonian  Shakespeare  ")  "  as,  in  my  opinion,  Schiller 
may  be  not  inaptly  termed,  and  our  French  studies 
comprise  such  exercises,  and  short  poems  and  tales,  as 
are  best  calculated  to  afford  an  insight  into  the  intri- 
cacies of  the  Gallic  tongue. 

"  But  I  would  not  have  you  imagine,  my  dear  parents 
(or  parent,   as  before),  that,  because  the  claims  of  the 
intellect  have  been  thus  amply  provided  for,  the  require- 
ments of  the  body  are  necessarily  overlooked  ! 
397 


"  Chevy  " 


"I  have  no  intention  of  becoming  a  mere  bookworm, 
and,  on  the  contrary,  we  have  had  one  excessively  brisk 
and  pleasant  game  at  football  already  this  season,  and 
should,  but  for  the  unfortunate  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  have  engaged  again  this  afternoon  in  the 
mimic  warfare. 

u  In  the  playground  our  favourite  diversion  is  the  game 
of  '  chevy,1  so  called  from  that  engagement  famed  in 
ballad  and  history  (I  allude  to  the  battle  of  Chevy  Chase), 
and  indeed,  my  dear  parents,  in  the  rapid  alternations  of 
its  fortunes  and  the  diversity  of  its  incident,  the  game  (to 
my  mind)  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  accounts  of 
that  ever-memorable  contest. 

"  I  fear  I  must  now  relinquish  my  pen,  as  the  time 
allotted  for  correspondence  is  fast  waning  to  its  close, 
and  tea-time  is  approaching.  Pray  give  my  kindest 
remembrances  to  all  my  numerous  friends  and  relatives, 
and  accept  my  fondest  love  and  affection  for  yourselves 
and  the  various  other  members  of  the  family  circle. 

"  I  am,  I  am  rejoiced  to  say,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
excellent  health,  and  surrounded  as  I  am  by  congenial 
companions,  and  employed  in  interesting  and  agreeable 
pursuits,  it  is  superfluous  to  add  that  I  am  happy. 

"And  now,  my  dear  parents,  believe  me,  your  dutiful 
and  affectionate  son,  so  and  so." 

The  Doctor  finished  his  dictation  with  a  roll  in  his 
voice,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  think  that  will  strike  your 
respective  parents  as  a  chaste  and  classical  composition ; 
I  think  so  !  " 

From  Vice  Versd,  by  F.  ANSTEY 


398 


POSTSCRIPT  II 

The  earliest  letter 

The  Psalmist  takes  steps  to  remove  an  obstacle 

[Circa  B.C.  1035] 
(David  to  Joab,  sent  by  the  hand  of  Uriah) 

SET   ye  Uriah   in  the  forefront  of  the  hottest  battle, 
and   retire   ye  from  him,  that  he  may  be  smitten, 
and  die. 


399 


POSTSCRIPT  III 

The  earliest  letter  by  an  English  woman.    Without 
postscript 

Lady  Pelham  informs  Sir  John  Pelham  of  the  siege  of 
Pevensey  Castle.  The  first  letter  extant  by  an 
English  woman.  (Spelling  modernised) 

[1399] 

MY  DEAR  LORD,  —  I  recommend  me  to  your  high 
lordship,  with  heart  and  body  and  all  my  poor 
might.  And  with  all  this  I  thank  you  as  my  dear  Lord, 
dearest  and  best  beloved  of  all  earthly  lords.  I  say 
for  me,  and  thank  you,  my  dear  Lord,  with  all  this  that 
I  said  before  of  [for]  your  comfortable  letter  that  you 
sent  me  from  Pontefract,  that  came  to  me  on  Mary 
Magdalen's  day:  for  by  my  troth  I  was  never  so  glad 
as  when  I  heard  by  your  letter  that  ye  were  strong 
enough  with  the  Grace  of  God  for  to  keep  you  from 
the  malice  of  your  enemies.  And,  dear  Lord,  if  it  like 
to  your  high  Lordship  that  as  soon  as  ye  might  that  I 
might  hear  of  your  gracious  speed,  which  God  Almighty 
continue  and  increase.  And,  my  dear  Lord,  if  it  like 
you  to  know  my  fare,  I  am  here  laid  by  in  a  manner 
400 


The  Siege 

of  a  siege  with  the  County  of  Sussex,  Surrey,  and  a 
great  parcel  of  Kent,  so  that  I  may  not  [go]  out  nor 
no  victuals  get  me,  but  with  much  hard.  Wherefore, 
my  dear,  if  it  like  you  by  the  advice  of  your  wise 
counsel  for  to  set  remedy  of  the  salvation  of  your  castle 
and  withstand  the  malice  of  the  shires  aforesaid.  And 
also  that  ye  be  fully  informed  of  the  great  malice-workers 
in  these  shires  which  have  no  despitefully  wrought  to  you, 
and  to  your  castle,  to  your  men  and  to  your  tenants ; 
for  this  country  have  they  wasted  for  a  great  while. 

Farewell,  my  dear  Lord!  the  Holy  Trinity  keep  you 
from  your  enemies,  and  soon  send  me  good  tidings  of 
you.  Written  at  Pevensey,  in  the  castle,  on  St.  Jacob's 
'Uy  last  past,  by  your  own  poor  J.  PELHAM 

To  my  true  Lord. 


2D  401 


POSTSCRIPT   IV 


The  Baboo  as  letter-writer 

I 

MOST  RESPECTED  SIR,  — I  fall  at  your  feet;  if 
you  please  save  my  life  and  make  me  happy. 
I  have  the  strongest  desire  to  have  the  Biscyle  to  ride 
on.  Through  the  contemplation,  I  have  no  sleep  either 
in  the  day  or  in  the  night.  I  have  been  reduced  to 
half,  and  if  I  continue  the  same  course,  I  do  not  know 
what  my  fate  will  be.  I  have  no  money  to  buy  it. 
Piety  has  never  become  fruitless,  and  so  the  generosity. 
Fame  should  remain  after  the  man  on  the  world,  and 
this  is  the  duty  which  man  should  do.  I  have  been 
submitted  myself  to  your  honour,  therefore  your  honour 
should  do  whatever  your  honour  likes.  Your  honour 
should  not  think  that  you  present  me  only  a  Biscyle 
worth  of  sum  rupees,  but  my  life  which  will  perhaps 
serve  your  honour  for  your  life.  Now  I  have  become 
like  a  helpless  sick  person  and  you  have  become  a 
doctor.  If  you  give  me  medicine  I  shall  recover,  other- 
wise not.  Please  be  kind  to  me.  God  will  be  pleased 
with  you  which  is  necessary  for  a  man  to  be  happy. 
Let  God  excite  tenderness  in  your  honour's  heart.  Let 
402 


Various  Desires 

your  great  kind  and  noble  mind  order  your  generous 
hands  to  present  this  miserable  man  with  your  most 
beautiful  "  Biscyle." —  Sir,  I  am  your's  obediently,  etc. 


II 

TJONOURABLE  SIR,  — Kindly  excuse  this  poor  thy 
•••  -••  servant  from  attending  on  your  Honour's  office 
this  day,  as  I  am  suffering  from  the  well-known  disease 
commonly  called  ache  of  the  interior  economy,  and  I 
shall  ever  pray.  —  Yours  ever  painful, 

RAM  CHUNDER 

P.S.  —  Oh,  death,  where  is  thy  sting? 

Ill 

MOST  EXALTED  SIR,  —  It  is  with  most  habitutily 
devout  expressions  of  my  sensitive  respect  that  I 
approach  the  clemency  of  your  masterful  position  with 
the  self-dispraising  utterance  of  my  esteem  and  the 
also  forgotten-by-myself  assurance  that  in  my  own  mind 
I  shall  be  freed  from  the  assumption  that  I  am  asking 
unpardonable  donations  if  I  assert  that  I  desire  a  short 
respite  from  my  exertions,  as  I  am  suffering  from  three 
boils,  as  per  margin.  I  have  the  honourable  delight  of 
subscribing  myself  your  exalted  reverence's  servitor, 

JANJANBOL  PANJAMJAUB 

IV 

MOST  HONORD   AND   LITTERAL   SIR,  — I  am 
poor     man     now    taking    trouble  to    write    Your 
Honour.     I   am  too  much  fond  of  mother  tongue,  alias 
403 


"A  damnable  Miserable" 

English,  and  therefore  being  profoundly  desirous  to  be 
master  of  this  tongue,  I  am  writing  you.  I  am  married 
man,  my  wife  by  the  blessing  of  God  has  been  too 
fruitful  and  thereby  multiplying  many  sons  and  daughters, 
children  causing  severest  distress  to  this  poor  petitioner's 
pockets  in  the  pecuniary  manner.  But  nevertheless  I 
am  strong  minded  and  with  energy  and  time  will  over- 
throw all  the  difficulties  which  do  at  present  beset  my 
matrimonial  bed.  As,  Sir,  I  cannot  afford  to  purchase  your 
universal  renowned  paper  must  asking  of  your  Honour 
a  great  and  magnanimous  favour  to  letting  me  have  free 
paper  in  order  to  magnify  my  intellect  and  in  time 
become  perhaps  a  author  of  some  book  or  books  may 
be.  I  will  then  remember  your  kind  Honour's  great 
kindness  and  will  ever  circumcise  myself  to  Your 
Honour  your  dutiful  tutor  and  other  things.  I  will 
write  articles  to  your  paper  as  payment  can't  give.  I 
will  make  your  Honour  present  of  book  when  I  write. 


ESPECTFULLY  SHEWETH,  —  That  your  hon- 
our's  servant  is  poor  man  in  agricultural  be- 
haviour, and  much  depends  on  season  for  the  staff  of 
life,  therefore  he  prays  that  you  will  favour  upon  him,  and 
take  him  into  your  saintly  service,  that  he  may  have 
some  permanently  labour  for  the  support  of  his  soul  and 
his  family ;  wherefore  he  falls  upon  his  family's  bended 
knees,  and  implores  to  you  of  this  merciful  consid- 
eration to  a  damnable  miserable,  like  your  honour's 
unfortunate  petitioner.  That  your  lordship's  honour's 
servant  was  too  much  poorly  during  the  last  rains  and  was 
resuscitated  by  much  medicines  which  made  magnificent 
excavations  in  the  coffers  of  your  honourable  servant, 
404 


Family  Troubles 

whose  means  are  circumcised  by  his  large  family,  consist- 
ing of  five  female  women,  and  three  masculine,  the  last 
of  which  are  still  taking  milk  from  mother's  chest,  and 
are  damnably  noiseful  through  pulmonary  catastrophe  in 
their  interior  abdomen.  Besides  the  above-named,  an 
additional  birth  is,  through  grace  of  God,  very  shortly 
occurring  to  my  beloved  wife  of  bosom.  .  .  .  That  your 
honour's  damnable  servant  was  officiating  in  several 
capacities  during  past  generations,  but  has  become  too 
much  old  for  espousing  hard  labour  in  this  time  of  his 
bodily  life ;  but  was  not  drunkard,  nor  fornicator,  nor 
thief,  nor  swindler,  nor  any  of  these  kind,  but  was  always 
pious,  affectionate  to  his  numerous  family  consisting  of 
the  aforesaid  five  female  women,  and  three  males,  the 
last  of  whom  are  still  milking  the  parental  mother.  That 
your  generous  honour's  lordship's  servant  was  entreating 
to  the  Magistrate  for  employment  in  Municipality  to 
remove  filth,  etc.,  but  was  not  granted  the  petitioner. 
Therefore  your  generous  lordship  will  give  to  me  some 

easy  work,  in  the Department,  or  something  of  this 

sort.  For  which  act  of  kindness  your  noble  lordship's 
poor  servant  will,  as  in  duty  bound,  pray  for  your  lon- 
gevity and  procreatiyeness.  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  sir, 
your  most  obedient  servant. 


405 


POSTSCRIPT  V 

Examples  of  the  Gentlest  Art  drawn  from  works  of 
fiction 

I 
Fanny  Squeers  describes  Nicholas  Nickleby's  outrage 

DOTHEBOYS  HALL,  Thursday  Morning 

SIR,  —  My  pa  requests  me  to  write  to  you.  The 
doctors  considering  it  doubtful  whether  he  will  ever 
recuvver  the  use  of  his  legs  which  prevents  his  holding  a 
pen. 

We  are  in  a  state  of  mind  beyond  everything,  and 
my  pa  is  one  mask  of  brooses  both  blue  and  green  like- 
wise two  forms  are  steepled  in  his  Goar.  We  were 
kimpelled  to  have  him  carried  down  into  the  kitchen 
where  he  now  lays.  You  will  judge  from  this  that  he  has 
been  brought  very  low. 

When  your  nevew  that  you  recommended  for  a  teacher 
had  done  this  to  my  pa  and  jumped  upon  his  body  with 
his  feet  and  also  langwedge  which  I  will  not  pollewt  my 
pen  with  describing,  he  assaulted  my  ma  with  dreadful 
violence,  dashed  her  to  the  earth,  and  drove  her  back 
comb  several  inches  into  her  head.  A  very  little  more 
406 


Fanny's  Postscript 


and  it  must  have  entered  her  skull.  We  have  a  medical 
certifiket  that  if  it  had,  the  tortershell  would  have  affected 
the  brain. 

Me  and  my  brother  were  then  the  victims  of  his 
feury  since  which  we  have  suffered  very  much  which  leads 
us  to  the  arrowing  belief  that  we  received  some  injury  in 
our  insides,  especially  as  no  marks  of  violence  are  visible 
externally.  I  am  screaming  out  loud  all  the  time  I  write 
and  so  is  my  brother,  which  takes  off  my  attention  rather, 
and  I  hope  will  excuse  mistakes. 

The  monster  having  sasiated  his  thirst  for  blood  ran 
away,  taking  with  him  a  boy  of  desperate  caracter  that 
he  had  excited  to  rebellyon,  and  a  garnet  ring  belonging 
to  my  ma,  and  not  having  been  apprehended  by  the 
constables  is  supposed  to  have  been  took  up  by  some 
stage-coach.  My  pa  begs  that  if  he  comes  to  you  the 
ring  may  be  returned,  and  that  you  will  let  the  thief  and 
assassin  go,  as  if  we  prosecuted  him  he  would  only  be 
transported,  and  if  he  is  let  go  he  is  sure  to  be  hung 
before  long,  which  will  save  us  trouble,  and  be  much 
more  satisfactory.  —  Hoping  to  hear  from  you  when 
convenient,  I  remain,  yours  and  cetrer, 

FANNY  S QUEERS 

P.S.  —  I  pity  his  ignorance  and  despise  him. 

II 
Mr.  Micawber's  first  letter  to  David  Copperfield 

MY  DEAR  YOUNG  FRIEND,  — The  die  is   cast  — 
all  is   over.      Hiding  the  ravages  of  care  with  a 
sickly    mask   of   mirth,   I    have   not   informed   you,    this 
evening,    that     there    is    no     hope    of    the    remittance! 
Under  these  circumstances,  alike  humiliating  to  endure, 
407 


A  last  Communication 

humiliating  to  contemplate,  and  humiliating  to  relate, 
I  have  discharged  the  pecuniary  liability  contracted  at 
this  establishment,  by  giving  a  note  of  hand,  made 
payable  fourteen  days  after  date,  at  my  residence, 
Pentonville,  London.  When  it  becomes  due,  it  will 
not  be  taken  up.  The  result  is  destruction.  The  bolt 
is  impending,  and  the  tree  must  fall. 

Let  the  wretched  man  who  now  addresses  you,  my 
dear  Copperfield,  be  a  beacon  to  you  through  life. 
He  writes  with  that  intention,  and  in  that  hope.  If 
he  could  think  himself  of  so  much  use,  one  gleam  of 
day  might,  by  possibility,  penetrate  into  the  cheerless 
dungeon  of  his  remaining  existence  —  though  his  lon- 
gevity is,  at  present  (to  say  the  least  of  it),  extremely 
problematical. 

This  is  the  last  communication,  my  dear  Copperfield, 
you  will  ever  receive  from  the  beggared  outcast, 

WlLKINS   MlCAWBER 

III 

Mr.  Micawber  has  prospects 

MY   DEAR    COPPERFIELD,  — You   may    possibly 
not     be    unprepared     to     receive    the     intimation 
that  something  has  turned  up.     I  may  have  mentioned 
to  you  on  a  former  occasion  that   I  was  in  expectation 
of  such  an  event. 

I  am  about  to  establish  myself  in  one  of  the  provincial 
towns  of  our  favoured  island  (where  the  society  may  be 
described  as  a  happy  admixture  of  the  agricultural  and 
the  clerical),  in  immediate  connection  with  one  of  the 
learned  professions.  Mrs.  Micawber  and  our  offspring 
will  accompany  me.  Our  ashes,  at  a  future  period, 
408 


A  later  Communication 

will  probably  be  found  commingled  in  the  cemetery 
attached  to  the  venerable  pile,  for  which  the  spot  to 
which  I  refer  has  acquired  a  reputation,  shall  I  say 
from  China  to  Peru? 

In  bidding  adieu  to  the  modern  Babylon,  where  we 
have  undergone  many  vicissitudes,  I  trust  not  ignobly, 
Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself  cannot  disguise  from  our 
minds  that  we  part,  it  may  be  for  years  and  it  may  be 
for  ever,  with  an  individual  linked  by  strong  associations 
to  the  altar  of  our  domestic  life.  If,  on  the  eve  of  such 
a  departure,  you  will  accompany  our  mutual  friend,  Mr. 
Thomas  Traddles,  to  our  present  abode,  and  there 
reciprocate  the  wishes  natural  to  the  occasion,  you  will 
confer  a  Boon  on  one  who  is  ever  yours, 

WILKINS  MICAWBER 

IV 

Mrs.  Micawber  expresses  her  fears  and  hopes 

MY  best  regards  to  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  if 
he  should  still  remember  one  who  formerly  had 
the  happiness  of  being  well  acquainted  with  him,  may 
I  beg  a  few  moments  of  his  leisure  time  ?  I  assure 
Mr.  T.  T.  that  I  would  not  intrude  upon  his  kindness, 
were  I  in  any  other  position  than  on  the  confines  of 
distraction. 

Though  harrowing  to  myself  to  mention,  the  alienation 
of  Mr.  Micawber  (formerly  so  domesticated)  from  his 
wife  and  family,  is  the  cause  of  my  addressing  my  un- 
happy appeal  to  Mr.  Traddles,  and  soliciting  his  best 
indulgence.  Mr.  T.  can  form  no  adequate  idea  of  the 
change  in  Mr.  Micawber's  conduct,  of  his  wildness,  of 
his  violence.  It  has  gradually  augmented,  until  it 
assumes  the  appearance  of  aberration  of  intellect. 
409 


Mr.   Micawber's  Paroxysms 

Scarcely  a  day  passes,  I  assure  Mr.  Traddles,  on  which 
some  paroxysm  does  not  take  place.  Mr.  T.  will  not 
require  me  to  depict  my  feelings,  when  I  inform  him 
that  I  have  become  accustomed  to  hear  Mr.  Micawber 
assert  that  he  has  sold  himself  to  the  D.  Mystery 
and  secrecy  have  long  been  his  principal  characteristic, 
have  long  replaced  unlimited  confidence.  The  slightest 
provocation,  even  being  asked  if  there  is  anything 
he  would  prefer  for  dinner,  causes  him  to  express  a 
wish  for  a  separation.  Last  night,  on  being  childishly 
solicited  for  twopence,  to  buy  "lemon-stunners"  —  a 
local  sweetmeat  —  he  presented  an  oyster-knife  at  the 
twins ! 

I  entreat  Mr.  Traddles  to  bear  with  me  in  entering 
into  these  details.  Without  them,  Mr.  T.  would  indeed 
find  it  difficult  to  form  the  faintest  conception  of  my 
heart-rending  situation. 

May  I  now  venture  to  confide  to  Mr.  T.  the  purport 
of  my  letter  ?  Will  he  now  allow  me  to  throw  myself 
on  his  friendly  consideration  ?  Oh  yes,  for  I  know  his 
heart  ! 

The  quick  eye  of  affection  is  not  easily  blinded,  when 
of  the  female  sex.  Mr.  Micawber  is  going  to  London. 
Though  he  studiously  concealed  his  hand,  this  morning 
before  breakfast,  in  writing  the  direction-card  which  he 
attached  to  the  little  brown  valise  of  happier  days,  the 
eagle-glance  of  matrimonial  anxiety  detected  d,  o,  n,  dis- 
tinctly traced.  The  West-end  destination  of  the  coach, 
is  the  Golden  Cross.  Dare  I  fervently  implore  Mr.  T. 
to  see  my  misguided  husband,  and  to  reason  with  him  ? 
Dare  I  ask  Mr.  T.  to  endeavour  to  step  in  between 
Mr.  Micawber  and  his  agonised  family  ?  Oh  no,  for  that 
would  be  too  much  ! 

If  Mr.  Copperfield  should  yet  remember  one  un- 
410 


Re-sealing  of  the  Doom 

known  to  fame,  will  Mr.  T.  take  charge  of  my  unalter- 
able regards  and  similar  entreaties  ?  In  any  case,  he 
will  have  the  benevolence  to  consider  this  communication 
strictly  private,  and  on  no  account  whatever  to  be  alluded 
to,  however  distantly,  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Micawber. 
If  Mr.  T.  should  ever  reply  to  it  (which  I  cannot  but 
feel  to  be  most  improbable),  a  letter  addressed  to  M.  E., 
Post  Office,  Canterbury,  will  be  fraught  with  less  painful 
consequences  than  any  addressed  immediately  to  one, 
who  subscribes  herself,  in  extreme  distress,  Mr.  Thomas 
Traddles's  respectful  friend  and  suppliant, 

EMMA  MICAWBER 

V 

Mr.  Micawber  at  the  two  extremes 

CANTERBURY,  Friday 

MY    DEAR    MADAM,    AND    COPPERFIELD,  - 
The  fair  land  of  promise   lately  looming  on  the 
horizon  is  again    enveloped   in  impenetrable    mists,  and 
for  ever  withdrawn  from   the  eyes  of  a  drifting  wretch 
whose  Doom  is  sealed! 

Another  writ  has  been  issued  (in  His  Majesty's  High 
Court  of  King's  Bench  at  Westminster),  in  another  cause 
of  KEEP  v.  MICAWBER,  and  the  defendant  in  that  cause 
is  the  prey  of  the  sheriff  having  legal  jurisdiction  in  this 
bailiwick. 

"  Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour, 
See  the  front  of  battle  lour, 
See  approach  proud  EDWARD'S  power — 
Chains  and  slavery !  " 

Consigned  to  which,  and  to  a  speedy  end  (for  mental 
torture  is  not   supportable   beyond  a  certain  point,  and 
411 


"  The  height  of  earthly  Bliss  " 

that  point  I  feel  I  have  attained),  my  course  is  run. 
Bless  you,  bless  you!  Some  future  traveller,  visiting, 
from  motives  of  curiosity,  not  unmingled,  let  us  hope, 
with  sympathy,  the  place  of  confinement  allotted  to 
debtors  in  this  city,  may,  and  I  trust  will,  ponder,  as  he 
traces  on.  its  walls,  inscribed  with  a  rusty  nail,  the 
obscure  initials,  W.  M. 

P.S.  —  I  re-open  this  to  say  that  our  common  friend, 
Mr.  Thomas  Traddles  (who  has  not  yet  left  us,  and  is 
looking  extremely  well),  has  paid  the  debt  and  costs,  in 
the  noble  name  of  Miss  Trot  wood ;  and  that  myself  and 
family  are  at  the  height  of  earthly  bliss. 

VI 

Little  George  Osborne  gives  his  mother  the  news  of 
the  great  fight  at  Dr.  Swishtail's 

SUGARCANE  HOUSE,  RICHMOND,  March  18  — 

DEAR  MAMA,  —  I  hope  you  are  quite  well.  I  should 
be  much  obliged  to  you  to  send  me  a  cake  and 
five  shillings.  There  has  been  a  fight  here  between 
Cuff  &  Dobbin.  Cuff,  you  know,  was  the  Cock  of  the 
School.  They  fought  thirteen  rounds,  and  Dobbin 
Licked.  So  Cuff  is  now  Only  Second  Cock.  The  fight 
was  about  me.  Cuff  was  licking  me  for  breaking  a 
bottle  of  milk,  and  Figs  wouldn't  stand  it.  We  call 
him  Figs  because  his  father  is  a  grocer — Figs  and 
Rudge,  Thames  St.,  City  —  I  think  as  he  fought  for  me 
you  ought  to  buy  your  Tea  and  Sugar  at  his  father's. 
Cuff  goes  home  every  Saturday,  but  can't  this,  be- 
cause he  has  2  Black  eyes.  He  has  a  white  pony 
to  come  and  fetch  him,  and  a  groom  in  livery  on  a 
412 


From  Pride  and  Prejudice 

bay  mare.     I  wish  my  papa  would  let  me  have  a  pony, 
and  I  am,  your  dutiful  Son, 

GEORGE  SEDLEY  OSBORNE 

P.S.  —  Give  my  love  to  little  Emmy.  I  am  cutting  her 
out  a  Coach  in  cardboard.  Please  not  a  seed-cake,  but  a 
plum-cake. 

VII 

Mr.  Bennet  prepares  the  family  for  Mr.  Collins's 
first  letter 

"  T  HOPE,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bennet  to  his  wife,  as 

-»-  they  were  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  "  that 
you  have  ordered  a  good  dinner  to-day,  because  I  have 
reason  to  expect  an  addition  to  our  family  party." 

"Who  do  you  mean,  my  dear?  I  know  of  nobody 
that  is  coming  I  am  sure  unless  Charlotte  Lucas  should 
happen  to  call  in  —  and  I  hope  my  dinners  are  good 
enough  for  her." 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  often  sees  such  at  home.  The 
person  of  whom  I  speak  is  a  gentleman  and  a  stranger." 

Mrs.  Bennet's  eyes  sparkled. 

"A  gentleman  and  a  stranger?  It  is  Mr.  Bingley, 
I  am  sure.  Why,  Jane,  you  never  dropt  a  word  of  this, 
you  sly  thing !  Well,  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  extremely 
glad  to  see  Mr.  Bingley.  But,  good  Lord,  how  un- 
lucky, there  is  not  a  bit  of  fish  to  be  got  to-day. 
Lydia,  my  love,  ring  the  bell ;  I  must  speak  to  Hill  this 
moment." 

"  It  is  not  Mr.  Bingley,"  said  her  husband  ;  "  it  is  a 
person  whom  I  never  saw  in  the  whole  course  of  my 
life." 

This  roused  a  general  astonishment ;  and  he  had  the 
413 


Mrs.  Bennet  and  the  Entail 

pleasure  of  being  eagerly  questioned   by  his  wife  and 
five  daughters  at  once. 

After  amusing  himself  some  time  with  their  curiosity, 
he  thus  explained  —  "  About  a  month  ago  I  received  this 
letter;  and  about  a  fortnight  ago  I  answered  it,  for  I 
thought  it  a  case  of  some  delicacy,  and  requiring  earl} 
attention.  It  is  from  my  cousin,  Mr.  Collins,  who,  when 
I  am  dead,  may  turn  you  all  out  of  this  house  as  soon  as 
he  pleases." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear,"  cried  his  wife,  "  I  cannot  bear  to  hear 
that  mentioned.  Pray  do  not  talk  of  that  odious  man. 
I  do  think  it  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world,  that  your 
estate  should  be  entailed  away  from  your  own  children ; 
and  I  am  sure,  if  I  had  been  you,  I  should  have  tried  to 
do  something  or  other  about  it." 

Jane  and  Elizabeth  attempted  to  explain  to  her  the 
nature  of  an  entail.  They  had  often  attempted  it  before, 
but  it  was  a  subject  on  which  Mrs.  Bennet  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  reason,  and  she  continued  to  rail  bitterly 
against  the  cruelty  of  settling  an  estate  away  from  a 
family  of  five  daughters,  in  favour  of  a  man  whom 
nobody  cared  anything  about. 

"  It  certainly  is  a  most  iniquitous  affair,"  said  Mr. 
Bennet,  "  and  nothing  can  clear  Mr.  Collins  from  the  guilt 
of  inheriting  Longbourn.  But  if  you  will  listen  to  his 
letter  you  may  perhaps  be  a  little  softened  by  his  manner 
of  expressing  himself." 

"  No,  that  I  am  sure  I  shall  not ;  and  I  think  it  was 
very  impertinent  of  him  to  write  to  you  at  all,  and  very 
hypocritical.  I  hate  such  false  friends.  Why  could  not 
he  keep  on  quarrelling  with  you,  as  his  father  did  before 
him  ? " 

"Why,  indeed,  he  does  seem  to  have  had  some  filial 
scruples  on  that  head,  as  you  will  hear. 
414 


Mr.  Collins's  Letter 

"  HUNSFORD,  NEAR  WESTERHAM,  KENT 

October  15 

,  — The  disagreement  subsisting  between 
yourself  and  my  late  honoured  father  always  gave 
me  much  uneasiness,  and  since  I  have  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  lose  him,  I  have  frequently  wished  to  heal 
the  breach ;  but  for  some  time  I  was  kept  back  by  my 
own  doubts,  fearing  lest  it  might  seem  disrespectful  to 
his  memory  for  me  to  be  on  good  terms  with  any  one 
with  whom  it  had  always  pleased  him  to  be  at  variance/ 
—  "There  Mrs.  Bennet." — '  My  mind,  however,  is  now 
made  up  on  the  subject,  for  having  received  ordination 
at  Easter,  I  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  be  distinguished 
by  the  patronage  of  the  Right  Hon.  Lady  Catherine 
de  Bourgh,  whose  bounty  and  beneficence  has  perferred 
me  to  the  valuable  rectory  of  this  parish,  where  it  shall 
be  my  earnest  endeavour  to  demean  myself  with  grateful 
respect  towards  her  Ladyship,  and  be  ever  ready  to 
perform  those  rites  and  ceremonies  which  are  instituted 
by  the  Church  of  England.  As  a  clergyman,  moreover, 
I  feel  it  my  duty  to  promote  and  establish  the  blessing 
of  peace  in  all  families  within  the  reach  of  my  influence ; 
and  on  these  grounds  I  flatter  myself  that  my  present 
overtures  of  goodwill  are  highly  commendable,  and  that 
the  circumstance  of  my  being  next  in  the  entail  of  Long- 
bourn  estate  will  be  kindly  overlooked  on  your  side,  and 
not  lead  you  to  regret  the  offered  olive-branch. 

" '  I  cannot  be  otherwise  than  concerned  at  being  the 
means  of  injuring  your  amiable  daughters,  and  beg  leave 
to  apologise  for  it,  as  well  as  to  assure  you  of  my  readi- 
ness to  make  them  every  possible  amends  —  but  of  this 
hereafter.  If  you  should  have  no  objections  to  receive 
me  into  your  house,  I  propose  myself  the  satisfaction  of 
waiting  on  you  and  your  family,  Monday,  Nov.  i8th, 
415 


Mr.  Bennet  has  great  Hopes 

by  four  o'clock,  and  shall  probably  trespass  on  your 
hospitality  till  the  Saturday  se'nnight  following,  which 
I  can  do  without  any  inconvenience,  as  Lady  Catherine 
is  far  from  objecting  to  my  occasional  absence  on  a 
Sunday,  provided  that  some  other  clergyman  is  engaged 
to  do  the  duty  of  the  day.— I  remain,  dear  Sir,  with 
respectful  compliments  to  your  lady  and  daughters,  your 
well-wisher  and  friend,  WILLIAM  COLLINS' 

"  At  four  o'clock,  therefore,  we  may  expect  this  peace- 
making gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Bennet,  as  he  folded  up  the 
letter.  "  He  seems  to  be  a  most  conscientious  and  polite 
young  man,  upon  my  word,  and  I  doubt  not  will  prove 
a  valuable  acquaintance,  especially  if  Lady  Catherine 
should  be  so  indulgent  as  to  let  him  come  to  us  again. 
There  is  some  sense  in  what  he  says  about  the  girls, 
however,  and  if  he  is  disposed  to  make  them  any  amends, 
I  shall  not  be  the  person  to  discourage  him." 

"  Though  it  is  difficult,"  said  Jane,  "  to  guess  in  what 
way  he  can  mean  to  make  us  the  atonement  he  thinks 
our  due,  the  wish  is  certainly  to  his  credit." 

Elizabeth  was  chiefly  struck  with  his  extraordinary 
deference  for  Lady  Catherine,  and  his  kind  intention 
of  christening,  marrying,  and  burying  his  parishioners 
whenever  it  was  required.  "  He  must  be  an  oddity,  I 
think,"  said  she.  "  I  cannot  make  him  out.  There  is 
something  very  pompous  in  his  style,  —  and  what  can 
he  mean  by  apologising  for  being  next  in  the  entail? 
We  cannot  suppose  he  would  help  it  if  he  could.  Can 
he  be  a  sensible  man,  Sir?" 

"  No,  my  dear ;    I   think  not.     I   have  great  hopes  of 
finding  him  quite  the  reverse.     There  is  a  mixture  of 
servility  and  self-importance  in  his  letter,  which  promises 
well.     I  am  impatient  to  see  him." 
416 


Mr.  Collins  writes  again 

"  In  point  of  composition,"  said  Mary,  "  his  letter  does 
not  seem  defective.  The  idea  of  the  olive-branch  perhaps 
is  not  wholly  new,  yet  I  think  it  is  well  expressed." 

VIII 
Mr.  Collins  urges  Mr.  Bennet  to  play  the  father 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  feel  myself  called  upon,  by  our 
relationship,  and  my  situation  in  life,  to  condole 
with  you  on  the  grievous  affliction  you  are  now  suffering 
under,  of  which  we  were  yesterday  informed  by  a  letter 
from  Hertfordshire.  Be  assured,  my  dear  sir,  that  Mrs. 
Collins  and  myself  sincerely  sympathise  with  you  and  all 
your  respectable  family,  in  your  present  distress,  which 
must  be  of  the  bitterest  kind,  because  proceeding  from 
a  cause  which  no  time  can  remove.  No  arguments  shall 
be  wanting  on  my  part  that  can  alleviate  so  severe  a 
misfortune  —  or  that  may  comfort  you,  under  a  circum- 
stance that  must  be  of  all  others  most  afflicting  to  a 
parent's  mind. 

The  death  of  your  daughter  would  have  been  a  bless- 
ing in  comparison  of  this. 

And  it  is  the  more  to  be  lamented,  because  there  is 
reason  to  suppose,  as  my  dear  Charlotte  informs  me,  that 
this  licentiousness  of  behaviour  in  your  daughter  has 
proceeded  from  a  faulty  degree  of  indulgence ;  though, 
at  the  same  time,  for  the  consolation  of  yourself  and. 
Mrs.  Bennet,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  her  own 
disposition  must  be  naturally  bad,  or  she  could  not 
be  guilty  of  such  an  enormity,  at  so  early  an 
age. 

However    that    may    be,    you    are    grievously    to    be 
pitied;  in  which  opinion  I  am  not  only  joined  by  Mrs. 
2E  417 


Lady  Catherine's  Feelings 

Collins,  but  likewise  by  Lady  Catherine  and  her  daughter, 
to  whom  I  have  related  the  affair. 

They  agree  with  me  in  apprehending  that  this  false 
step  in  one  daughter  will  be  injurious  to  the  fortunes 
of  all  the  others ;  for  who,  as  Lady  Catherine  herself 
condescendingly  says,  will  connect  themselves  with  such 
a  family  ?  And  this  consideration  leads  me  moreover 
to  reflect  with  augmented  satisfaction,  on  a  certain 
event  of  last  November;  for  had  it  been  otherwise, 
I  must  have  been  involved  in  all  your  sorrow  and 
disgrace. 

Let  me  advise  you  then,  my  dear  sir,  to  console  your- 
self as  much  as  possible,  to  throw  off  your  unworthy 
child  from  your  affection  for  ever,  and  leave  her  to 
reap  the  fruits  of  her  own  heinous  offence.  —  I  am,  dear 
Sir,  etc. 

IX 

Mr.  Bennet  dismisses  Mr.  Collins 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  must  trouble  you  once  more  for  con- 
gratulations.    Elizabeth   will  soon  be  the  wife  of 
Mr.  Darcy.     Console  Lady  Catherine  as  well  as  you  can. 
But,  if  I   were  you,    I  would  stand  by  the   nephew;   he 
has  more  to  give.  —  Yours  sincerely,  etc. 

X 

Mr.  Weller,  senior,  becomes  the  happy  Bear  of  ill  news 

MARKIS  GRAKBY,  DORKEN,  Wednesday 
[Y  DEAR  SAMMLE,—  I  am  wery  sorry  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  a  Bear  of  ill  news  your  Mother 
in  law  cort  cold  consekens  of  imprudently  settin  too  long 
418 


"She  paid  the  last  Pike" 

on  the  damp  grass  in  the  rain  a  hearin  of  a  shepherd 
who  warnt  able  to  leave  off  till  late  at  night  owen.  to  his 
havin  vound  his-self  up  vith  brandy  and  vater  and  not 
being  able  to  stop  his-self  till  he  got  a  little  sober  which 
took  a  many  hours  to  do  the  doctor  says  that  if  she'd 
svallo'd  varm  brandy  and  vater  artervards  insted  of  afore 
he  mightn't  have  been  no  vus  her  veels  wos  immedetly 
greased  and  everythink  done  to  set  her  agoin  as  could 
be  inwented  your  farther  had  hopes  as  she  vould  have 
vorked  round  as  usual  but  just  as  she  wos  a  turnen  the 
corner  my  boy  she  took  the  wrong  road  and  vent  down 
hill  vith  a  welocity  you  never  see  and  notvithstandin 
that  the  drag  wos  put  on  directly  by  the  medikel  man  it 
wornt  of  no  use  at  all  for  she  paid  the  last  pike  at  twenty 
minutes  afore  six  o'clock  yesterday  evenin  havin  done 
the  jouney  wery  much  under  the  reglar  time  vich  praps 
was  partly  owen  to  her  haven  taken  in  wery  little  luggage 
by  the  vay  your  father  says  that  if  you  vill  come  and  see 
me  Sammy  he  vill  take  it  as  a  wery  great  favor  for  I  am 
wery  lonely  Samivel  n  b  he  vill  have  it  spelt  that  vay 
vich  I  say  ant  right  and  as  there  is  sich  a  many  things 
to  settle  he  is  sure  your  guvner  won't  object  of  course  he 
vill  not  Sammy  for  I  knows  him  better  so  he  sends  his 
dooty  in  which  I  join  and  am  Samivel  infernally  yours, 

TONY  VELLER 


419 


POSTSCRIPT  VI 

A  model 
Mr.  Rogers  to  Lady  Dufferin 

T  T  TILL  you  dine  with  me  on  Wednesday  ? 

Lady  Dufferin  to  Mr.  Rogers 
\  T  7ONT  I  ? 


420 


TERMINAL  NOTE 

MY  thanks  are  due,  and  are  very  gratefully  given,  to 
many  owners  of  copyright  for  allowing  this  book 
to  be  much  more  representative  than  it  could  have  been 
without  them :  to  Miss  Georgina  Hogarth  for  the  letters 
of  Charles  Dickens ;  and  also,  for  other  rights  in  that 
great  man's  work,  to  Mr.  A.  P.  Watt,  to  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.,  to  Col.  Ward  and  Mr.  John  Murray;  to 
Mr.  W.  P.  Frith,  R.A.,  for  the  letters  of  Shirley  Brooks ; 
to  Sir  George  Otto  Trevelyan  for  the  letters  of  Macaulay ; 
to  the  Rev.  Bridgeman  G.  F.  C.  W.  Boughton-Leigh  for 
the  correspondence  between  Lady  Shuckburgh  and  Lady 
Seymour ;  to  Mr.  W.  L.  Dodgson  for  the  letters  of  Lewis 
Carroll ;  to  Mr.  C.  L.  Graves  for  a  letter  from  his  Memoir 
of  Sir  George  Grove ;  to  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.  for 
the  letters  of  Thackeray,  and  for  adding  their  permis- 
sion to  Mr.  Anstey's  for  the  citation  of  Dr.  Grimstone's 
dictated  masterpiece ;  to  Messrs.  Longmans  &  Co.  for 
the  extracts  from  the  Memoir  and  Correspondence  of 
Miss  Berry;  to  Mr.  A.  G.  B.  Russell  and  Messrs. 
Methuen  for  two  letters  of  William  Blake ;  to  Mr. 
Edward  Arnold  for  two  letters  of  Maria  Edgeworth ;  to 
Mr.  Alexander  Carlyle  and  the  various  publishers  for  the 
letters  of  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle  (Longmans  &  Co.),  the  early 
letters  of  Thomas  Carlyle  (Macmillan  &  Co.),  and  for 
421 


Acknowledgments 

Carlyle's  account  of  meeting  Queen  Victoria  (John  Lane)  ; 
to  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.  for  the  letters  of  Jane  Austen 
and  Edward  FitzGerald ;  to  Mrs.  Hugh  Carter  for 
Thackeray's  new  letter  to  her  father-in-law;  to  Mr. 
Lloyd  Osbourne  for  two  letters  of  R.  L.  Stevenson ; 
and  to  Mr.  Ewing  T.  Irwin  for  T.  E.  Brown's  description 
of  the  Jungfrau.  I  regret  exceedingly,  with  Prof.  Charles 
Eliot  Norton,  that  the  publishers  of  the  letters  of  James 
Russell  Lowell  could  not  see  their  way  to  allow  any  of 
them  to  appear  in  this  book. 

The  Roman  letters  are  either  from  the  translations  in 
Elegant  Extracts  or  in  William  Roberts's  History  of 
Letter  Writing •;  Gray's  letters  are  from  Mr.  Gosse's 
edition ;  Lamb's  are  from  Messrs.  Methuen's  edition ; 
Keats's  from  Mr.  Buxton  Forman's  edition ;  Swift's 
letters,  for  the  most  part,  from  Mr.  Stanley  Lane- 
Poole's  edition.  I  found  the  Parish  Clerk's  letter,  on 
page  274,  in  the  diary  of  the  Rev.  Julius  Young,  a 
treasury  of  agreeable  egoism.  Bob  Thorns'  own  copy 
of  his  letter  of  resignation  was  given  to  me  by  Mr.  A.  J. 
Gaston.  Sergeant  Dunt's  application  for  fishing-rights 
is  from  Mr.  H.  O.  Nethercote's  history  of  the  Pytchley 
(S.  Low  &  Co.),  and  George  Forester's  account  of  Tom 
Moody's  funeral  from  Thormanby's  Kings  of  the  Hunting 
Field  (Hutchinson).  Lastly,  I  would  say  that  I  found 
Messrs.  Nimmo's  British  Letter- Writers  very  useful. 

E.  V.  L. 

July,  1907 


422 


"  As  life  runs  on  the  road  grows  strange, 
With  faces  new, — and  near  the  end 
The  milestones  into  headstones  change :  — 
'Neath  every  one  a  friend." 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


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